


Almost Family

by AZGirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Deaths of Minor and OC Characters, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scenes, Spoilers for season one, Tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 54,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4537776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their family of choice was built person by person. A series of tags and missing scenes based on “Family” by Celticgal1041.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538130) by [Celticgal1041](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041). 



> It has been quite a while since I last posted a story, but I’ve definitely not been idle in the interim. I’ve have been working with the awesome Celticgal1041 on a series of tags and missing scenes to accompany and expand upon her new story “Family.” 
> 
> For each of her chapters, there is a corresponding story written by me that was inspired by a quote from “Family.” Some require her story to understand, while others do not. Several of them take place pre-series/pre-Family, so I’ll be incorporating timeline notes (and other warnings) at the beginning of each chapter. 
> 
> Some of you have likely noticed that I like to begin my stories with a quotation**. Each chapter has its own quotation taken from Celticgal1041’s story, but there is also an overall quote for the whole of this effort that I believe is extremely fitting. For fun, I’m going to parse it out a little at a time and invite you to guess its source without using the internet. Hint: It’s from a film made within the past 15 years.

**Timeline:** Prequel to Chapter 1 of Family; takes place before d’Artagnan heads to Paris and after his father is murdered. Can stand on its own.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, …” ******_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter One: Alone**

_“No matter what the man did to his body, his mind had retreated deeply inwards where a warm flame burned brightly and reminded him that he was not alone.”_

_~~~~~ d’Artagnan, Chapter 1 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

He was all alone now. 

Not just in the sense of no one presently in his company, but in all senses of the word. 

When he’d been younger, his mother had been taken by a mysterious illness, silencing his prayers for the sibling he had so badly wanted. 

His mother’s family was completely unknown to him, and now that his father was dead and unable to pass on any knowledge about them, that part of his life seemed forever closed off to him. 

His father’s younger brother and family, who had lived in the next village over, had been killed by bandits the year before. D’Artagnan had still been reeling from the loss of his two best friends, who had become closer to him than the siblings he had always hoped for but had never had. 

D’Artagnan’s father had been devastated to learn of his brother’s death. The fact that they were twins made them closer than most siblings could ever hope to be. Alexandre had often joked that Jean-Claude was the baby brother, though they had been born only minutes apart. One night, just after his uncle had died and his father had drunk a little too much, Alexandre had confided in his son that he felt as if he was missing another piece of himself, inferring that his mother had been the first piece that he’d lost. It seemed that God had determined then that d’Artagnan and his father were to be all the family either of them needed. 

In death, his uncle had managed to save his ‘older’ brother. As sole heir, his father had inherited Jean-Claude’s land. By selling it off, the proceeds allowed Alexandre to not only pay off the brother’s debt, but most of his own debts as well, though they were still a little behind on their taxes. 

Their farm had been made relatively safe from being taken away from them, but that was not the case any longer. The King’s taxes had risen yet again and there were rumors of the Intendant of Gascony resorting to violence to collect back taxes as well as imposing high fines for being overdue. Without intervention from the King, there would be no relief from the intolerable burden of the taxes that had been levied across the region. 

Because he was respected amongst the locals, Alexandre d’Artagnan had been elected to go to Paris and speak to the King about relief from the too-high taxes. Because it was too dangerous for his father to travel alone, d’Artagnan had accompanied his father on the journey. Because of a series of choices, his father had been murdered. 

He had not been able to stop his father from dying, but he would find his father’s killer. The question of whether it would be justice or revenge was still to be answered. 

D’Artagnan crouched down and laid his hand on the cold mound of dirt before him. 

“I’m sorry, Father, that I could not take you home and lay you to rest next to Mother. Even this time of year, it’s too far to travel before…”—He bent his fingers so that the tips were buried in the dirt—“It’s just another failure on my part, I guess. The innkeeper said the men who attacked were Musketeers. I can hardly believe it after all the stories we’ve heard… They’re supposed to be honorable men!”—d’Artagnan bowed his head and closed his eyes—“I won’t rest until I find this Athos of the Musketeers and kill him. I know you would rather I seek justice than revenge, but I’m just not sure I am capable of that right now. This Athos took you away from me, the last of my family. I am alone in the world because of that man.”—d’Artagnan lifted his head and straightened his fingers, lightly patting the mound once before standing—“I failed you in life but I refuse to fail you in death. And if I die in my pursuit of Athos, then at least I will be with my family again and won’t be so alone anymore.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**


	2. Burning Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene for Chapter 2 of Family. Takes place after Porthos, Aramis, and d’Artagnan find the dead bodies of Cornet and the other missing Musketeers and the clue of the Spanish doubloon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that each day, I will be adding a few more words to the story’s overall quote**. Any guesses yet?
> 
> From now on, the timeline notes (and warnings) will be posted in the chapter summary...  
> .  
> .

**ooooooo**

_**"What happens if, too early,…”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Two: Burning Anger**

_“His father's death is fresh and he's had little opportunity to mourn. It makes him easy to anger and quick to act.”_

_~~~~~ Aramis, Chapter 2 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

As Porthos spurred his horse back towards Paris, he chanced a glance back towards his traveling companions. Aramis caught his eye and smirked, but d’Artagnan seemed to be in his own world. 

Riding along the ill-maintained road, he found his thoughts continually straying towards the young Gascon positioned at the back of their group. 

Throughout their brief acquaintance, Porthos has noticed that d’Artagnan’s every thought and action is shrouded by negative emotion. Frustration, irritation, impatience, and stubbornness seem to be all the younger man was capable of for the time being. 

Above all of that has been d’Artagnan’s anger. It burns brightly as if it is trying to outshine the sun. If d’Artagnan is not careful, it will consume him until he is only ash drifting along in the breeze – directionless and without purpose. 

Porthos recognizes the younger man’s anger and knows it intimately. He can remember back to a time when he was just barely old enough to know better. There had been a time when he had been so very angry at his mother for dying and leaving him all alone in the world. He supposes that, as his father might still be out there somewhere, it was possible that d’Artagnan still had family back home, but he doubts it. Underneath all that rage is a grief and devastation so deep that it could only mean one thing – the kid was now alone. 

He knew that feeling all too well. Porthos had been very young when his mother had died of a fever. The first time his loneliness had truly gone away was when he met Charon and then Flea a few years later, though his anger had remained for a long time to come. 

Years later, it had been the Musketeers who had become his family, primarily Aramis and Athos. The Musketeers were his brothers and cousins, and Captain Tréville was both surrogate father and uncle to many of the men, himself included. Having the Musketeers in his life had leeched the anger out of him bit by bit. He had found a way to enjoy life and live it to its fullest. 

The fiery anger that had stayed aflame all those years had been banked by the deep, abiding friendships he had made and redirected towards doing his duty for King and Country as well as protecting his brothers. At the moment, all d’Artagnan could see through the flames of his anger was vengeance, not justice. 

Porthos had yet to see anything but darkness in the Gascon’s eyes. The man’s anger and grief were so intertwined that you couldn’t distinguish one from the other. It was obvious in every move the young man made, in every expression on his face, and in everything he said. 

His own anger had led him to a life he had not been proud of while he had still lived in the Court of Miracles. Porthos could see d’Artagnan’s anger leading him down a darker path that the young man would never be able to come back from. 

Saving Athos was their number one priority, but it seemed that d’Artagnan needed someone to help him redirect the fiery vengeance that threatened to wholly consume him. 

Athos’s life may be at stake, but it seemed d’Artagnan’s soul was as well. 

Porthos just had to decide whether or not he cared enough to help the young, hot-headed stranger. He would bet that Aramis, beyond his role as healer, was wondering the very same thing. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**


	3. Strength and Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene for Chapter 3 of Family, which should be read first. Takes place after Athos is saved from the firing squad.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent –”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Three: Strength and Shield**

_When they reached the doors and stood facing the busy Parisian street, Athos turned to him, apparently searching for the right words before simply saying, "Thank you. I understand that you helped clear my name and I'm grateful for your assistance.”_

_~~~~~ Athos to d’Artagnan, Chapter 3 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan followed Athos and the man’s enigmatic look up the stairs and through the prison’s imposing interior. By the time they had all reached the prison’s courtyard, Aramis and Porthos had pushed past him to flank Athos, ensuring none of the guards would try anything against the newly acquitted Musketeer. 

Once there, Porthos loudly demanded that the irons be immediately removed from Athos’ wrists. The prison’s blacksmith had rushed forward and nervously struck at the pins holding the heavy metal cuffs closed. When the first opened and dropped away, Athos grimaced slightly and d’Artagnan noticed Aramis’s hands twitch as if he was anxious to check for injuries. The other cuff fell to the ground with an obnoxiously loud clank of metal upon metal, but instead of picking them up, the blacksmith nervously backed away, obviously intimidated by Porthos’s dark expression and fearing retaliation for any damage to the ex-prisoner’s wrists. 

From where he was standing, d’Artagnan could just barely see that the skin of both of Athos’s wrists were a little irritated and red. With only a single look between them, the three Musketeers moved in concert off to a more private area of the courtyard. D’Artagnan followed along in the same direction but kept his distance, knowing he would not be welcomed for the private moment between the men. 

Athos looked resigned to Aramis’s desire to check for injuries, which was done as discreetly as possible in the bleak environment. If d’Artagnan hadn’t been watching and hadn’t known Aramis had training in the healing arts, he never would’ve recognized what was going on between the two men. 

While Aramis was focused on the abraded wrists, Porthos had leaned in closer and began conversing with Athos, likely in order to distract the older man. As they were talking, Athos turned his head slightly to look in his direction. It seemed highly probable that Porthos was informing the older man about d’Artagnan’s part in freeing Athos from his death sentence. 

All of this only took a few minutes, but in those few minutes, it was as if being in each other’s presence once more had allowed the three men to reconnect as more than brothers-at-arms. From the lengths Aramis and Porthos had gone to save Athos, d’Artagnan realized that the three men were more than friends and were in fact, family. They were each other’s strength and shield against what life and duty constantly threw at them. 

D’Artagnan envied the obviously close friendships and brotherhood of the three men. It reminded him of the closeness he had once shared with his father and his own best friends. Since their deaths, d’Artagnan had not had any close friendships with anyone near his own age. Seeing how devoted the three Musketeers were to one another was just another reminder of just how alone he was in the world. 

In just those few minutes, d’Artagnan had seen a change come over Athos. The man had understandably seemed a little out of sorts due to his recent ordeal, but in his friends’ presence, he was now standing tall once more. Athos had regained his composure and his expression was once again the same stoic mask that d’Artagnan had encountered upon their first meeting. 

In fact, Aramis and Porthos also seemed to be unburdened and much more relaxed, standing just a little taller as well. 

The difference was remarkable to his eyes, and d’Artagnan wished he had someone who could help and be there for him like that. Alas, there was no one like that anymore, and he had no idea how he would be able to carry on as he moved forward with his life. 

Without a glance towards him, the three Musketeers started heading towards the prison’s gates. D’Artagnan rushed to catch up to them, happy to be leaving such an oppressive place, and hoping that one day he might find friends as good as Porthos, Aramis, and Athos. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Four: The Thief


	4. The Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene for Chapter 4 of Family. Takes place before Captain Tréville gives Athos, Aramis, and Porthos their assignment to apprehend the horse thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Celticgal1041’s permission and input, I’ve given the stable owner the name of Eugène.

**ooooooo**

  _"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on…”_

**ooooooo**

**.**

**Chapter Four: The Thief**

_“I found 'im this morning, in one of the stalls. I'm sure he would've robbed me blind if I hadn't gotten here earlier than normal. As it was, he put up one heck of a fight, but my boy, Rémy, whacked him over the head with a shovel. I've got him tied up in the back.”_

_~~~~~ Stable Owner (aka Eugène), Chapter 4 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Eugène rolled over from his back and onto his left side in the large bed of his bedroom. His wife had insisted on the wider-than-normal bed, and he had not been able to resist his bride’s desire for more space to better accommodate the times when she would be carrying their children. 

Eyes still closed, and without really thinking about what he was doing, he stretched his hand out across the space so that he could have some contact between him and his beloved wife, but there was no one there. He felt around for her as he opened his eyes, but that’s when the reality of his life caught up with him. 

The other side of the bed was empty because his wife was gone, taken by a fever barely one year ago. It was in the first waking moments of the morning that he still tended to forget that his beloved had gone ahead to Heaven and was not with him anymore. For him, it always felt like it had just happened yesterday even though so many months had already gone by. Due to years of habit, he had yet to stop sleeping solely on his side of the bed. 

Fully awake and mourning his loss all over again, he decided to not bother trying to get any more sleep and got up for the day. He decided to let his son, Rémy, continue sleeping, knowing his boy would be along as soon as the sun had started to rise. 

He thanked God that he and his wife had been blessed with multiple children so that he didn’t have to face his later years completely alone. In fact, his daughter Lisette was due to give birth to his first grandchild any day now. She had said that if the child was a girl, then the baby would be named after his much-missed wife. He thought Jeanette would have been beside herself with joy to have the first of a new generation named after her. 

Now dressed and with the last of a hunk of bread in his mouth, he reached for a lantern hanging on a hook just outside the front door to his home. Once the lantern was lit with the candle he’d brought from his bedroom, he blew out the small candle and set it on the table just inside the door. Hefting the lantern so it better illuminated the dark surroundings, Eugène made his way to the stables, intending to finish repairing a latch on the door to their supply cupboard. 

He entered through the small gate at the back of the fenced-in exercise yard. The space wasn’t overly large but it sufficed for the short amount of time that most of the horses were boarded there. 

Crossing to the stables, he recalled his son saying something about a man asking to have his horse put up just before they’d closed for the night. There were several open stalls and he hoped Rémy remembered to not put the newest horse into the stall next to the mare that was in heat. He thought he would check to see which stall the horse had been put in before moving on to other chores. 

He took a key out of his pocket and opened the padlock and chain keeping the large, main doors closed. Before the theft of two of the horses that had been boarding there on a more long term basis, he didn’t used to lock the doors, but he had later decided that the slight inconvenience was probably better than to have to pay restitution to irate horse owners. 

Out of habit, he started an inspection of the stalls, noting to himself what tasks needed to be done that day as well as looking for the newly boarded horse. He paused briefly at the stall of a beautiful black that he did not recognize, admiring the piece of horse flesh, and guessing this to be the horse his son had spoken of. 

A few stalls down the row, on the outer edge of the lamp’s light, Eugène thought he spotted someone curled up in the corner. Was it a beggar that had thought to have a bed for the night or another thief lying in wait for his chance to steal one of the horses? 

Pretending he hadn’t seen anything suspicious, the stable owner continued on to the next stall before detouring towards a support post in order to hang his lamp up and free his hands. He may lock his stables up at night, but he acknowledged the fact that a person could still get in if they were determined enough. 

If it were a beggar seeking shelter for the night, he would simply send the poor soul on their way, happy that he had inadvertently provided a bit of charity to someone in need; his Jeanette would have been proud of him for that. However, if it was some horse thief, lying in wait until the stable’s main doors were unlocked to ride away with one of the horses, then he would bring the full weight of the law down upon them and happily watch them hang. 

Having hung the lamp up out of the way, Eugène quietly crept back towards the stall occupied by the potential thief. In the dim light, he could see from the stranger’s clothes that it was no beggar and rushed forward in order to attempt to subdue the thief before he could get away. 

He noticed the intruder was asleep and thought the younger man just might be the worst horse thief in history. When the man hadn’t so much as moved upon his approach, Eugène congratulated himself on his stealth before kicking the intruder in the side. 

The thief recoiled, making a sound that was a cross between a surprised gasp and a pained groan. Satisfied that he had hurt the intruder, Eugène took advantage of the situation and grabbed an arm intending to drag the younger man out of the stall. 

The horses were starting to respond to the noises as the boy attempted to struggle out of his grasp. The beautiful black he’d stopped to admire was especially vocal as the thief started weakly protesting the treatment he was receiving, saying something about a horse as he stood. 

Just then Eugène spotted his son entering the stables and grabbing a shovel. Eugène snatched at the boy’s arm and started yelling obscenities in order to distract the thief who was trying to tear his arm away even as he curled his other arm protectively around his ribs. Had he really kicked the young man hard enough to do some damage? He couldn’t help but be pleased at the thought as a memory of the extremely irate owner of the previously stolen horses came to the fore of his mind. 

In his distraction, the young man managed to wrench his arm out of Eugène’s grasp and turned to get away just as Rémy swung the shovel at the thief’s head. The shovel struck the right side of the boy’s head, causing him to go down in a boneless heap, looking like a marionette that had had all of its strings cut at the same time. 

His son asked him if he was alright, and Eugène assured Rémy that he was perfectly fine before instructing him to help drag the thief outside. Though the intruder was unconscious, he didn’t think it prudent to take any chances and wanted to tie the boy up immediately. 

They each grabbed an arm and dragged the young man outside and around to the back of the building where his customers hopefully wouldn’t see that anything was amiss. Rémy ran off to get a length of rope while he adjusted the body to lean against a fence post. When his son returned, they tied the thief up tight with his hands behind his back, the position causing the man’s head to hang low to his chest. 

After they finished tying the thief up, Eugène and his son congratulated each other on a job well done before Rémy ran off to the nearby Musketeer’s garrison to lodge a complaint. Normally, they would’ve taken such a matter to the Red Guards, but ever since one of them had tried to assault one of his daughters, the stable owner only trusted matters of the law to the more honorable Musketeers. 

Watching Rémy hurry off towards the garrison, he noticed that the sun was just cresting the low roof of his house. Even as the satisfaction and joy of catching the thief lingered, he grumbled to himself about now being behind in his work for the day. 

As the sun continued rising high into the bright blue sky, Eugène and his son took turns checking on the thief, ensuring that the young man was not trying to escape. He was a little worried that the thief was still unconscious, afraid that Rémy had done some serious damage and that the intruder would die before he could be hanged. 

At one point, once the sun had risen high enough for there to be enough light to see by, Rémy came to him with the notion that the intruder might be the Gascon who owned the beautiful black he’d taken in the day before. His son was not sure though, always being much better at recognizing horses than people. Not wanting to take a chance, they kept the young man tied up out back. 

If no one claimed the black in the next day or two, then it was reasonable to assume the horse and the Gascon belonged together, though it did not explain why the young man had been sleeping in his stable. Hopefully the authorities would not hang the alleged thief right away, but if they did, then at least he’d have a nice piece of horse flesh to make up for his troubles and for the losses he had incurred from the previous thefts just over four months ago. 

Every so often, Eugène would go out front to see if any Musketeers were coming, annoyed at how long it was taking for them to respond and impatient for the thief to be gone from his establishment. Several hours after catching the thief, he finally caught sight of three Musketeers riding towards his stables. 

When the Musketeers had dismounted, Eugène crossed his arms and curtly said, “Took you long enough. I don't have all day to do your jobs for you.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Five: Getting to Know You


	5. Getting to Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene for Chapter 5 of Family. Expands upon the four days that d’Artagnan spends at the garrison. Four days, four separate POVs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to what is, by far, the longest chapter!

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely…”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Five: Getting to Know You**

_“It would be the first of many meals the four would share together, d'Artagnan staying at the garrison for four full days before the men subtly let it drop that Constance was seeking a boarder…”_

_~~~~~ Chapter 5 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

_Day One:_

Aramis kept an eye on how much d’Artagnan was eating during their meal together. It seemed barely enough to keep a mouse alive, but he could understand why the young Gascon was being cautious. It was obvious to him that d’Artagnan was still suffering from his concussion and that the symptoms hadn’t abated as much as his “I’m fine” was supposed to have satisfied them. 

While they ate, their young companion sat and listened, not even trying to take part in the conversation. It was difficult to say if that was a result of the concussion’s effects, which was probable given the occasional flinch when Porthos laughed out loud, or the fact that d’Artagnan didn’t know how to react to them, also possible given the often confused and bewildered expression on the young man’s face. Regardless of the reason, he could easily see, despite the valiant effort to hide it, how much d’Artagnan was in pain from his injuries. 

After a while, he could see that his friends had also caught on to d’Artagnan’s condition. He decided to wait a few more minutes to see if the Gascon would admit to his discomfort, but when d’Artagnan did not, Aramis sighed in frustration. Apparently the lad’s stubbornness was just as strong as his determination to not appear weak in front of three relative strangers, and at the moment, neither trait was doing d’Artagnan any favors. 

When the young man’s posture slumped over even more and he made an aborted move to rub at his forehead, Aramis decided that enough was enough. Evidently so had Athos if the pointed look his friend had just shot his direction was any indication. 

Aramis stood and said, “Come, d’Artagnan, I think it’s time you once more took advantage of the garrison’s excellent accommodations.” 

At first, d’Artagnan did not reply, but when Porthos gently nudged a shoulder, the lad’s head snapped up but quickly lowered again with a quiet moan of pain. As the Gascon lifted a hand to his head, Aramis glared at Porthos who sent back a contrite look. 

Porthos grabbed an arm and helped d’Artagnan to stand. When the young man briefly swayed, Aramis quickly made his way to d’Artagnan’s other side and the two of them helped get the stubborn idiot to his room. Along the way, there were half-hearted, mumbled protests, but he and Porthos ignored them all. Hopefully, a good night’s sleep would help banish some of the worst of the symptoms of d’Artagnan’s concussion. 

As the three of them made their way along an open corridor that overlooked the courtyard, Aramis looked back towards the table that they had just been occupying and saw that Athos was already gone. 

Aramis wished he knew why Athos was so determined to not get to know d’Artagnan. 

ooooooo 

_Day Two:_

Porthos let the wonderful smell of Serge’s fresh-baked bread fill his nose as he made his way towards the mess hall. 

Once a month, twice if there was a holiday and the garrison’s budget stretched far enough, Serge took the time and effort to make an extra batch of bread that had that little something extra in it. Most of the time it was just one extra ingredient chosen to enhance the flavor, but it was a welcome change from the usual fare. 

Most of the Musketeers made an effort to come around early enough so that they could get their fair share while the bread was still warm and the flavor was best. Even Athos managed to drag himself in earlier than normal on those days, regardless of any hangover the man might still be suffering from. 

Porthos grabbed a bowl of porridge and a slice of the pleasantly warm bread, savoring the smell of the red currants that dotted it. Aramis arrived soon after and sat across form him, eating his slice of doctored bread and savoring it as if it were his last meal on earth. Athos, when he arrived seemed more worse for wear than usual from a hangover. He brought a slice with him to the table, but it looked like it would be a while before he would actually be able to eat it. 

After an unfortunate accident with a main gauche a month or two after Serge had started making his special batch of bread, Captain Tréville had instituted strict rules regarding the monthly treat. There was to be only one slice per person given out for the first three hours and then after that, if there was any left, the remainder was up for grabs. 

Porthos managed to secure himself another piece of bread from the scant leftovers and was savoring its taste when Aramis suddenly asked if any of them had seen d’Artagnan yet that morning. Still not used to the younger man’s presence amongst them, Porthos felt guilty for not remembering their temporary guest. Aramis had begun to rise from the table, obviously concerned that d’Artagnan’s condition may have deteriorated during the night, but he’d waved his friend off, promising to call for him if something was wrong. He’d been the first to arrive and should’ve thought on checking on d’Artagnan; it was only fair that he be the one to check on the Gascon now. 

Porthos knocked on d’Artagnan’s door and seconds later, after a couple of muffled noises, it was opened. The Musketeer was relieved that his quick scan of the lad had not revealed any obvious complications. D’Artagnan might still be plagued with headaches, but that was normal when recovering from a concussion. 

“Morning,” d’Artagnan said, looking unsure as to why Porthos was there. 

Porthos nodded once and smiled, before replying, “Morning. How are you feeling?” 

“I’m fine,” the young man replied as expected and without hesitation. 

“Well, if you’re so fine, why didn’t you come down to breakfast?” 

D’Artagnan looked down for a moment as if trying to figure out what to say. 

Porthos waited, having learned that uncomfortable silences would sometimes prompt people to continue speaking. D’Artagnan shook his head slightly before looking up. 

“I-I’m not hungry.” 

Instantly, Porthos sensed that was a lie or, at the best, a half-truth, but he couldn’t figure out why the kid was refusing to eat. He stepped forward to put a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to propel him forward and out of his room but d’Artagnan resisted the movement. 

“I should stay here. Aramis said I need to rest my ribs.” 

“At least come down and keep us company until it’s time to muster. You can rest your ribs just as easily sitting down in the courtyard as you can in your room.” 

Porthos tried to move d’Artagnan out of his room a second time, but the younger man resisted once again, though only long enough to grab his weapons which were leaning against the wall just inside the door. He idly wondered if d’Artagnan had placed his weapons where he did because the lad was expecting trouble, still suspicious of the Musketeers, or some combination of the two. He didn’t really like any of those options, but Porthos felt he could understand the lad’s caution due to the uncertainty of his surroundings. 

As they walked down the corridor, d’Artagnan almost immediately moved away from the hand that he’d lain on the Gascon’s shoulder. Presumably it was under the pretense of putting his weapons belt on, but Porthos felt there was more to it. Perhaps the young man was like Athos and didn’t much like being touched. Or maybe, after the way the three of them had toyed with d’Artagnan the night before, the kid was wary of their intentions and motives, and therefore didn’t trust them much or at all at this point. 

When they got close enough to the mess, Aramis looked up at them and smiled one of his more charming smiles, likely an attempt to put d’Artagnan at ease. 

“Good morning, d’Artagnan. You should’ve come down earlier. I believe there is some porridge left, but you’ve missed out on Serge’s special bread. It’s a once-a-month treat that the Captain has arranged for us.” 

Before d’Artagnan could reply, Porthos shot a look towards Aramis and said, “He told me he’s not hungry.” 

Aramis perked up and stood, moving around the table and towards the Gascon. 

“Are you unwell? Is your concussion still bothering you?” 

D’Artagnan took a step back to avoid Aramis’s suddenly close proximity. 

“I’m fine,” he said. 

Porthos rolled his eyes at the rote response and caught sight of Athos, hat still low over his eyes, shaking his head slightly. He had a feeling that they’d be hearing that phrase a lot over the next few days. 

Aramis continued to move forward, but d’Artagnan held up a hand as if to ward him off. 

“If you’re sure,” Aramis said, suspicion coloring his voice. “Come sit with us.” 

Porthos put a hand briefly on the young man’s back to propel him towards the table they had been sitting at. 

“Muster is in a few minutes,” Aramis continued. “If we are not needed on a mission today, then we will be training. You are welcome to observe if you so desire.” 

“I should probably go back to my room; I do not wish to be in the way.” 

The tone of d’Artagnan’s speech made him sit up a little straighter, and with a quick glance to his two friends, Porthos knew the others had heard it as well. Was that why the kid hadn’t come down to breakfast? 

“Nonsense, there will be other Musketeers and recruits watching, waiting their turn to participate. There’s always room for one more”—Aramis ran a hand through his hair—“though, with those ribs, you won’t be able to do anything but watch, alright?” 

D’Artagnan hesitated, his eyes briefly sliding over towards Athos, before he nodded once. 

Suddenly, Athos stood and picked up his plate with his uneaten slice of Serge’s special bread upon it and placed it in front of d’Artagnan. Before anyone could say anything, Athos walked away to stand with the others now gathering for muster and awaiting Captain Tréville’s arrival. 

D’Artagnan looked at the plate as if it were going to jump up and bite him. Porthos, surprised by Athos’s actions, didn’t know what to think. From Aramis’s expression, the feeling was mutual. 

His mind quickly came up with a plausible excuse for the older man’s behavior. 

He leaned towards d’Artagnan and confided, “Athos and his stomach don’t seem to be getting along this morning – probably too much wine last night. I know you said you weren’t hungry, but at least taste it. It would be a shame to let it go completely to waste.” 

Both he and Aramis then stood and walked away from the table, leaving d’Artagnan to stare contemplatively at the food he’d been given. During muster, Porthos made sure to stand where he could see d’Artagnan, and saw him pick at the bread. By the time the orders for the day had been given out, more than half of it was gone before the younger man pushed the plate away. His eyes met Aramis’s and they shared a smile, happy that they could get the stubborn Gascon to eat something. 

The three of them had not been assigned a mission away from the garrison; instead, they were to aid in training the newer recruits. In deference to the lingering headache that d’Artagnan seemed to have but refused to admit to, Porthos dragged the young man over to watch him teach some of the recruits some hand-to-hand combat skills, bypassing Aramis and his shooting practice. 

Porthos made sure to keep an eye on d’Artagnan throughout the day. Usually it was just a quick visual check of the boy’s location, and he’d caught Aramis doing the same thing at least twice. 

Late in the morning, Aramis came over and collected d’Artagnan, asking the man to help him clean his weapons and offering to teach him the finer points of their maintenance. It was an activity that would be reasonably restful and yet teach the lad something. He had noticed more than once that d’Artagnan had taken to watching their every move during training as if committing them to memory. 

Just after midday, when everyone had stopped for a rest and a light meal. D’Artagnan had tried to excuse himself, but Aramis had come up behind him and the Gascon and thrown an object towards the young man. D’Artagnan easily caught what had turned out to be an apple and had begun to eat it without thinking. When Aramis handed him another apple, d’Artagnan hesitated for a moment before taking and biting into it. Porthos caught Aramis’s eye and grinned, congratulating the other man for getting d’Artagnan to eat something though not enough to make either of them happy, when they considered his almost too-thin frame. If only they could get the younger man to understand that he was not a burden or a debt that they needed to repay – though that was a part of it – and was instead a guest who was free to partake in the meals that were provided to the Musketeers. 

In the afternoon, d’Artagnan wandered of his own accord to where Athos was sparring with some of the recruits. Porthos didn’t understand Athos’s attitude towards d’Artagnan, especially since the lad had been crucial towards preventing the man’s execution. It seemed to be one of mere tolerance of the younger man’s presence bordering on completely ignoring the Gascon. 

At one point Porthos had taken a break and had joined d’Artagnan in watching Athos train some recruits. D’Artagnan hadn’t even noticed his approach due to the fact that the younger man was so intent on watching Athos’s every move as he sparred with the other Musketeers. Given the Gascon’s expression, d’Artagnan was in awe of the older man’s skill with a blade, the moves full of grace and power, yet never belittling the men he defeated so quickly and, more often than not, making a suggestion or two about what could be improved upon. Porthos had left without the younger man ever realizing that he’d been standing right there beside him. 

By the end of the day, it was obvious that d’Artagnan was flagging, having more than once ignored Aramis’s suggestions to go and lie down for a while. Athos looked more than displeased with his suggestion to dine at the garrison for the evening meal in order to accommodate d’Artagnan’s quickly emptying energy reserves. Athos eventually acquiesced to the idea after Aramis had quietly offered to buy him a bottle of wine when they went out to the tavern once they made sure d’Artagnan got to his room in one piece. 

When Aramis rose from the dinner table to help d’Artagnan to his room, Porthos noted that Athos did not even bother to wait for his friends and immediately left for the tavern. Noting that Aramis did not need any assistance, he left the garrison and managed to quickly catch up to his friend, hoping to find a card game that he could take part in. 

ooooooo 

_Day Three:_

Athos entered the garrison’s courtyard and headed straight towards Aramis, who was sitting at their regular table eating his morning meal. He sat down across from his friend and grabbed a hunk of bread out of the basket in the center of the table. When the smell didn’t prompt his unstable stomach to rebel, he began to eat it, thankful he did not have to miss out on more of Serge’s wonderful bread, special or not, two days in a row. 

He knew that he had surprised his friends the day before by giving the boy his slice of special bread, but he had indulged far too much in his wine and knew he would not be able to stomach it no matter how much he had wanted to eat it. The simple truth was that he did want not the coveted treat to go to waste, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the younger man looked far too thin. 

Porthos showed up by the time he was nearly finished with his meagre meal. His friend looked rather pleased with himself, so Athos concluded that Porthos must have had a good night of gambling. When he had left the tavern earlier than normal the previous night due to his exhaustion from dealing with his god-awful hangover and a full day of training, Athos had noted that Porthos had seemed to be having a good time, which meant he’d had a winning hand. 

Once he got back to his room, Athos had hoped that his exhaustion would have easily translated into sleep. However, it had taken another bottle of wine to help him forget the image of six ready-to-fire muskets pointed unerringly at him that had randomly sprung to mind the moment he had laid down on his bed. Even with his sleep aid, he had awakened more than once during the night to nightmares of his wife hanging from the end of a rope, his brother’s blood staining his hands, or the loud echoing of musket fire. 

Aside from Porthos’s greetings, there was no conversation between them. Athos suspected that was due in part to their individual, late-night activities resulting in too few hours of sleep, but he was glad for it anyway. The simple presence of his brothers was helping to bring his mood up out of the depths into which it had plummeted during the night. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined when Aramis next spoke. 

“Do you think we should go and get him again this morning?” 

“Who?” Athos asked even though he knew the answer. He just wished they could finally be rid of the young interloper. 

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis replied, giving him a look that said his feigned ignorance was not fooling anyone. 

“Ah,” he said, continuing with the pretense. 

Athos did not understand Porthos and Aramis’s near obsession with the boy. They had saved the young man from going to prison for being a horse thief and had given him shelter the past two nights. How could it be that the debt for saving his worthless life was considered not yet paid back in full? At this point, he was tolerating the boy’s presence in his life for the sake of his friends and would be happy to see the last of the stubborn boy any time now. 

“Well?” Aramis asked Porthos directly. 

“Is there some reason you are coddling the boy? Is he incapable of finding his own way?” Athos asked. 

Porthos glared at him. “That’s not it. I think d’Artagnan’s not sure of ‘is place and among us and—” 

“What place?” Athos asked, beginning to get angry. “He is a guest and a temporary one at that. There is no ‘ _place_ ’ amongst us. Besides”—he nodded towards something over Aramis’s shoulder—“the question is now moot. It seems the boy has decided to join us without prompting today.” 

“He helped to save your life!” Porthos said in a harsh whisper. 

“And I am grateful. I just—” 

“Hush! Both of you. He’s almost upon us,” Aramis said with a look that said they would be discussing this further at another time. 

D’Artagnan approached the three of them, looking uncertain if he should do so in the first place. The glance that the boy sent his way made him wonder if their conversation hadn’t been overheard by him. It was either that or the boy was more perceptive than his often rash behavior suggested. Frankly, he didn’t care either way, getting up from the table just as Porthos was inviting the Gascon to sit. 

Muster was a quick affair with Captain Tréville calling the three of them up to his office at the end of it. As he made his way up stairs, he hoped that they were being assigned to a mission that would take them away from Paris for a few days. He really wanted to put his near execution behind him, but it was difficult to do so with d’Artagnan around as a reminder. 

The Captain only needed two of them for a mission that should have them back by nightfall, but before he could speak up, Aramis quickly volunteered himself and Porthos for it. From the looks they traded, the two of them were up to something. Half a second later, it came to him that his two _ex-_ friends were conspiring to throw him and d’Artagnan together for the day in order to prompt them to be on more friendly terms. Athos mentally rolled his eyes at how obvious the two men were being with their plan. 

Porthos and Aramis called out d’Artagnan’s name once they stepped back into the courtyard, and he was surprised when the boy practically materialized behind him. His friends explained that they would be gone for the day, but expressed a desire to share the evening meal with d’Artagnan when they returned. D’Artagnan didn’t really react to the news; he just nodded his head once in understanding. Once they reached the stables, the boy wished them safe travels and, with a quick glance towards him, left in order to presumably allow the three of them to say their own private farewells. 

While his friends tacked up their horses, Athos leaned against the entrance to the stables waiting for them to reveal their hastily drawn up plan for sticking him and d’Artagnan together for the day. When the two of them continued to trade looks as if they were goading each other to speak, Athos finally lost his patience. 

“Well?” he said as he raised a hand up to his forehand to rub some to the tension that had been building there away. Athos sighed when there was no answer immediately forthcoming and prompted, “Ask me.” 

His friends shared one more look before one of Aramis’s shoulders slumped a little in relief and Porthos grinned slightly as he stepped forward. 

“We get that you want to be rid of d’Artagnan soonest, but we’d appreciate it if you could keep an eye out for ‘im today.” 

“And make sure he doesn’t overdue it with those ribs,” Aramis added. 

Athos had known that the request was coming, yet he still couldn’t quite get himself to agree to it. 

“You owe him your life,” Porthos reminded. 

“Do I?” Athos asked. “I thought my parents had that dubious honor.” 

“Athos!” Aramis said, losing his patience. “Without d’Artagnan we might not have been able to prove your innocence in time and you know it. Just…”—the marksman sighed in frustration—“As a favor to us?” 

Athos knew he wouldn’t be able to deny his friends their request, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. 

“Fine,” he said, trying not to be bothered by the idea that he would have to be in the boy’s company for part of the day. 

“Thank you,” Aramis said while Porthos added, “Yeah, thanks.” 

Athos nodded once and said, “You had better get going.” 

“See you at dinner,” Porthos said as he mounted his horse. 

“Safe travels,” he said to both of them as they rode out the main gate. 

Over the course of the day, Athos checked in on d’Artagnan from time to time in a largely covert manner, though he had the feeling that the boy was doing the very same thing to him, which frustrated him slightly. As with the day before, Athos helped to train the new recruits on the finer points of sword play. Once or twice he caught a glimpse of the Gascon standing in the nearby shadows watching the various Musketeers sparring with each other. 

However, it was whenever he was sparring against someone else that Athos noticed d’Artagnan’s rapt attention on every move he was making, as if he were memorizing them. It unnerved him more than a little to be under such intense scrutiny. Athos felt he was the worst possible choice for someone to emulate, even if it was just his skills with a blade. His ability to tolerate the boy became strained as the morning continued on, and he had to continually remind himself that d’Artagnan would soon be gone from his life. 

About an hour before he was going to call a halt for the midday meal, he accidentally locked eyes with d’Artagnan. His irritation over how closely he had been watched that morning returned, which the boy must have picked up on, because d’Artagnan broke eye contact almost immediately. By the time he had sent the others away, d’Artagnan had disappeared. 

Approaching the mess, he spied d’Artagnan talking with Serge. Having served the meal, the older cook usually had a few minutes free to do what he liked before the kitchen boy started to bring in the dirty dishes to be cleaned. From the words he could overhear, the two men were getting along well and Serge was sharing a story about the infamous Cleopatra, the man’s weapon of choice for many a year until he’d retired from active duty to become their cook. 

Watching the two of them together, Athos realized that it was the first time he’d seen d’Artagnan smile so freely. Up until that moment, the boy had been so reserved in how he expressed himself. The difference between the present and the rest of their short acquaintance was such that it was like the sun had come out from behind a bank of dark, rain-filled clouds. 

Serge kept trying to press food upon d’Artagnan, but the boy refused the majority on offer. He saw the young man point to a basket of apples, and Serge happily passed it to him. When they were fortunate to have them, the Musketeers were only allowed one per day, but Serge permitted the boy to take three of them. It was one thing for Aramis to give up his allotment, it was quite another for the boy to take someone else’s. Still feeling annoyed by the fact that the boy had practically been his shadow all day thus far, Athos decided that he couldn’t let the act of gluttony stand, though he did not miss the hypocriticalness of the situation considering he regularly overindulged in drinking wine. 

He followed the boy out of the mess and quickly caught up to him, grabbing his sleeve. 

“Athos,” d’Artagnan said, taking a step back. “Is there something wrong?” 

“Yes. You are a guest; you should not be taking advantage of the situation,” Athos replied, pointing to the apples nestled in d’Artagnan’s hands. 

“I don’t understand. Serge said—” 

“I don’t care what he said. You should not be taking more than is your fair share.” 

“But—” 

Athos held up a hand, interrupting the boy. “The fact that you used your new found acquaintance to trick Serge into giving you those apples greatly disappoints me.” 

With a wounded expression on his face, D’Artagnan opened his mouth to say something, probably to argue that he had done nothing wrong, but in the end the boy said nothing. The young man just shoved the apples into his hands and quickly walked away. Athos fumbled with the contraband for a moment to ensure a better grip on the fruit before taking them back to Serge. 

As he put the apples back in the basket, Serge said, “Oh, did the lad change his mind? He said that he wanted to make sure that Aramis and Porthos got one when they got back. Planned to leave one on each of their beds as a treat.” 

Realizing his mistake, Athos made his way back out into the courtyard, hoping to find and apologize to d’Artagnan, but the boy had disappeared once again. 

He started a quick search of the garrison, hoping to find the young man before he had to resume his training of the recruits. It took him far too long to figure out that the boy was in the stables. 

When he entered, he found d’Artagnan grooming his horse. He saw the boy stiffen when d’Artagnan realized who had entered the stables, yet the rhythmic motions of acts long ingrained continued without pause. 

“D’Artagnan, I would like to…apologize for my actions and words just now. You did not deserve them,” Athos said. 

Instead of saying anything, d’Artagnan simply nodded. The Gascon dropped the brush he’d been using into a bucket and, in deference to his bruised ribs, carefully bent over to retrieve a different one. 

Thinking the young man was not going to say anything, Athos turned to head back towards his duties, but d’Artagnan’s voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“I know you don’t want me here and will be more than happy to be rid of me when I’m gone, but I hope that you will trust me when I say that I mean you and the others no harm.”—d’Artagnan paused in his motions to look him in the eye—“I am sorry to have acted rashly in accusing you of murdering my father and challenging you to a duel the other day. I hope that you will someday forgive me for that. I realize that you could easily have killed me and thank you for showing mercy.” 

Athos had not expected the apology, hadn’t even known he needed one, but somehow d’Artagnan’s words settled something within him – he just didn’t know what that was quite yet. 

“You were grieving. Still are, I think,” he said. 

D’Artagnan caught his eyes again and tilted his head slightly to the left. 

“I think you are still grieving too.” 

The boy’s words ricocheted around his head, gathering speed as the seconds slipped by. The image of a small bunch of forget-me-nots flashed through his mind and suddenly the stables felt too confining. Athos walked away without saying another word. 

He didn’t see the boy for the rest of the day. 

With training finished for the afternoon, Athos headed out to a tavern, having no desire to spend any more time at the garrison. Knowing Aramis and Porthos wanted to have dinner when they returned, Athos stuck to drinking only one bottle of wine, though he was thoroughly tempted to drink much more to tamp down the memories that d’Artagnan had managed to dredge up. 

Athos was in his room reading a book and waiting for his friends’ return, while absolutely _not_ avoiding d’Artagnan, when someone began pounding on his door. He opened it to find an angry-looking Aramis and Porthos standing in front of him. 

“What did you do to ‘im?” Porthos asked as he stepped into the room. 

“Do? I did nothing to him,” he replied, trying to avoid thinking of the earlier incident with the apples. 

“Exactly,” Aramis said. “You did nothing. Do you even know where d’Artagnan is at the moment?” 

“Should I?” 

“You promised…” Porthos began and then sighed. “You said that you would keep an eye out for ‘im today!” 

“And I did,” Athos replied. “I saw him multiple times today. Each time he seemed in perfect health.” 

“My friend, you and I have very different definitions of what it means to keep an eye out for someone,” Aramis said. 

“Evidently.” 

“So you ‘ave no idea where ‘e could be?” Porthos asked. “When we got back, and didn’t see ‘im anywhere, we thought ‘e would be with you.” 

Athos had to work hard to keep his expression from giving away just how idiotic he thought that statement had sounded. 

“The last time I saw him, the boy was in the stables.” 

His friends exchanged a look, one that almost seemed panicked, before rushing out of the room. Athos followed along; he was curious to see if d’Artagnan had indeed left, and was feeling a little guilty for possibly driving away someone his friends obviously liked and who was still recovering from various injuries. 

Upon entering the stables, it was obvious that d’Artagnan’s horse, including its tack, was gone. Seeing the empty stall in front of him triggered something within Athos. Whether it was concern or something else, he was not sure, but one thing he was certain of was the guilt he felt for being the one to have driven the Gascon away. 

Porthos’s cursing brought him back to the present as the taller man brushed past him, stopping at the entrance to the stables. 

“Should we try going after him?” Porthos asked. 

Aramis shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, betraying his indecision over the matter. 

“He was free to leave at any time,” the sharpshooter finally replied. “Assuming he was not helped along”—Aramis shot a glare towards Athos—“with that decision.” 

Athos didn’t even bother trying to defend himself. He knew that he had been treating the boy as if his imprisonment and near execution was the young man’s fault, when it would have happened regardless of whether or not d’Artagnan had been there. The fact that d’Artagnan had helped to clear his name should have earned the Gascon enough good will for Athos to not have dismissed the boy completely out of hand. At the very least, he should have been more tolerant of d’Artagnan’s presence and taken his promise to keep any eye out for him more to heart. 

“I think we should try to find him,” Porthos said, his voice determined-sounding. “We can start by asking if anyone saw the lad leave.” 

Aramis nodded his agreement and matched Porthos stride for stride as they left the stable. Athos followed along without comment, wanting to make some amends for the mistakes he had made thus far. 

Having found out when d’Artagnan had left and which direction he’d gone, the three of them were back in the stables tacking up their horses to go in search of him when the boy in question walked in. Athos was the first to spot the boy and his horse. 

“D’Artagnan,” he said as a greeting, refraining from yelling at the young man for making them think he’d gone for good without informing them. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his friends’ heads snap up from their tasks and whip towards the direction of the young man. 

Porthos surged forward. “Where the ‘ell have you been?” 

D’Artagnan seemed surprised by the question as well as slightly irritated by it. Athos saw the boy forcibly rein in his temper before speaking. Perhaps the Gascon was not always so rash in his actions. 

“Before Captain Tréville left for the palace, I asked him where I could exercise my horse and he informed me of the meadow just outside the city that the Musketeers use for maneuvers.”—the boy slid a glance his way—“Because the two of you were gone and Athos was…otherwise engaged, I went there without informing anyone else.”—d’Artagnan lowered his head briefly before continuing—“My apologies if I made you worry. That was not my intention. I am still new to Paris and made a wrong turn coming back, which is why I am returning much later than I had planned.” 

“You rode and not walked your horse?” Aramis asked, concern lacing his voice. 

“I rode to the meadow and around it; I walked back. Another reason it took me so long to get back.” 

“And your ribs? Your head? You are feeling alright?” 

Athos could practically hear the boy’s _‘I’m fine’_ before d’Artagnan said it. 

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan replied. 

Athos wondered if the boy was able to discern that no one believed his claim. 

“Here d’Artagnan, let me help you untack your horse,” Porthos said. 

D’Artagnan led his horse back towards the stall he’d been using. “You don’t have to do that, Porthos. I can—” 

“I know you can, lad, but you don’t have to,” Porthos said, taking the reins from d’Artagnan. 

“But weren’t you going somewhere?” d’Artagnan asked, pointing towards their horses. 

“Not anymore,” Athos muttered. 

Aramis glared at him and stepped forward. “We were going to try and find you, but obviously that is no longer necessary. Shall we get something to eat?” 

D’Artagnan paused a moment, letting his gaze trail towards Athos, who met the look as expressionless as possible, wanting the boy to make the decision without any influence from his previous actions. The boy nodded in agreement and the four of them made quick work of untacking the horses before leaving the stables for the evening meal. 

That evening, Athos attempted to give the boy a chance. He did not know why he was so against getting to know d’Artagnan or why the Gascon evoked such a range of emotions within him. During that meal, he listened as Porthos and Aramis engaged the boy in conversation, recognizing that d’Artagnan was intelligent and quick of wit, though still reserved around them. Instead of maintaining his silence as he had done the previous two nights, Athos made an effort to interject a comment here or there, surprising the other three men the first time he spoke. 

When d’Artagnan finally was unable to hide his fatigue any longer, Athos stood up and announced his intention to go to the tavern, something he had not bothered to do the two previous nights. Both Porthos and Aramis escorted d’Artagnan to his room that night, likely afraid that the lad would disappear on them again. 

Athos realized then that both of his friends would be hard pressed to let d’Artagnan leave Paris without a fight. It occurred to Athos as he was exiting the garrison that it might one day be possible for him to learn to also accept the boy’s presence in his life. 

ooooooo 

_Day Four_ : 

When d’Artagnan first came to awareness, he took a deep breath without thinking and was met with only a slight hitch of pain from his still healing body. That, more than anything else, told him that his time at the garrison was coming to an end. He was running out of time to make some sort of decision about his future. 

This was his fourth day at the garrison, though he couldn’t really remember much of the first day due to the blow to the head he’d received at the stables. Having spent time with the three Musketeers over the past few days, he still didn’t know what to make of them and their inconsistent behavior towards him. He figured their odd behavior likely stemmed from the fact that, despite his assurances to the contrary, the three men to varying degrees felt that they owed him a debt for helping to save Athos’s life. It was certainly obvious that Athos had taken his assurances to heart, if how the older man hardly tolerated him was any evidence. 

One thing he did know for sure was that the three men had annoyed and awed him in equal parts since the moment he’d first burst into the garrison pointing a gun at them. At first, they had essentially dismissed him, and then Athos had used his greater skill to defeat him in, what he considered an embarrassingly short amount of time. 

Porthos and Aramis coming to Athos’s aid had been the first time he’d experienced a glimpse of the true brotherhood between the three men. It had been years since he’d had that in his own life, and he hadn’t realized just how much he had missed such a thing until it had inadvertently been flaunted right in front of his face. 

After getting dressed, d’Artagnan quickly splashed some water on his face that he’d poured out into the wash basin from the pitcher left in his room each day. He’d very slowly become more accustomed to being in the three Musketeers’ presence even though he often felt like he was keeping the men from their usual pursuits and conversation. Having intended from the beginning to keep from being a burden as much as possible, he had been surprised by their desire to include him in some way or another during the past few days, even going so far as to want him to join them at meal times. 

With that thought, his stomach gave a growl, and he gathered his weapons belt as he headed out the door and made his way towards the courtyard. 

Porthos was sitting at the same table as he’d seen the man occupy for the past few days. D’Artagnan wondered if any of the other Musketeers ever sat at that table or if it was one of those things that everyone accepted as an unvoiced rule that it was permanently reserved for Aramis, Porthos, and Athos. He stifled the smile that threatened to erupt on his face at the thought of the three men defending their territory against hordes of tired Musketeers looking for somewhere to sit. 

After the previous day’s lecture from Athos about being a guest and not taking more than his fair share, d’Artagnan did as he’d done the night before and stuck to the smallest portion possible so that no Musketeers would have to go without because of him. Porthos kept trying to push him to eat more, but he refused, stating that what he’d eaten was enough. Athos may have apologized for his remark, but that did not negate the fact that he had been partaking of food that he had neither paid for nor earned. He may be a guest but he didn’t want to be a burden on the Musketeers’ finite resources. After Aramis made an attempt to get him to eat more, he thought he saw Athos shake his head a little as if he were irritated. Apparently, he couldn’t do anything right by that man’s standards. 

Of his three acquaintances, d’Artagnan was most wary of Athos since he’d spent the least amount of time with the older man. At least with Porthos and Aramis, he’d had some time to get a feel for the men as they’d raced the clock to save Athos’s life. Yet, with Athos, he was having a hard time gaining even the smallest understanding of the older man’s actions. Despite how little he knew of them personally, the Gascon could see how well-respected the three Musketeers were amongst the other men. He sensed that they were good and honorable men aside from their faults, which so far he’d had only had a few brief glimpses, and wondered how many of his own flaws he’d exposed. 

When Aramis had first arrived to the table, d’Artagnan had been barraged with multiple questions about his health, further solidifying his belief that this was his last day at the garrison. Though he gave the man his standard answer of “I’m fine,” which he could tell annoyed both Aramis and Porthos, d’Artagnan for once was telling the truth. Except for one still-purple spot, where his sword’s crossguard had bitten deeply into his side, the bruises on his ribs were a sickly yellow-green color, which indicated that he was healing normally. His concussion had faded to an occasional headache, which was one of the reasons he had walked his horse back instead of riding it when he’d left the garrison for a few hours the previous day. 

He’d ridden his horse out to the meadow, but over time, what had started out as tolerable twinges had escalated into occasional stabs of pain in both his ribs and head. D’Artagnan made the decision to walk back, not wanting to aggravate his healing injuries any further. While it had been true that he had made a wrong turn, he’d actually found his way back on track fairly quickly with the help of a chandler. 

The truth behind why he had been out in the meadow for so long, longer than he had originally intended, was due to the memories the quiet, verdant locale had evoked within him of his home in Lupiac. The grief he had been denying himself from feeling thus far had rushed in and overwhelmed him for a time. In that wide open space, he’d been reminded of just how alone he really was in the world. 

Because this was more than likely his last day at the garrison, he had to make some kind of decision about his future, what he was going to do with his life. He didn’t really have many choices open to him. He either went back to Gascony and made a go of his family’s farm, or he remained in Paris and…? 

D’Artagnan felt at a loss to be able to finish that thought. There really was no other choice left to him, now that he really thought about it. He was a farmer who had a bit of skill with a blade; what was there for him in Paris? With barely enough funds to return home, it wasn’t prudent for him to stay where he had no employment and knew only a handful of people. 

He knew what he should do, but something deep inside was keeping him from accepting what he thought was his fate in life. He had grown up on a farm, but he’d never felt the same kinship with the land that his father had enjoyed. Perhaps he could find a way to change things just enough so that— 

“D’Artagnan!” 

The voice calling his name startled him out of the reverie that he’d accidentally sunk into. From the look on the two men’s faces, his name had been called more than once. 

“Yes! Sorry,” he said. “You were saying?” 

“Are you alright?” Aramis asked. 

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan automatically replied before adding. “I was woolgathering. What do you need?” 

Aramis gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher, and said, “Need? Nothing. We just wanted to let you know that we’re going to be gone for part of the day. Athos is accompanying the Captain to the palace, and Porthos and I will be out on patrol. Will you be alright on your own?” 

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Well, you did get lost yesterday,” Porthos replied, with a grin on his face. 

“And came back proclaiming your fitness to all and sundry, when I’m certain that was not entirely the truth,” Aramis added. 

“I’m new to the city!” he defended, ignoring the fact that Aramis was right and beginning to feel annoyed at the two men once more. “You can’t tell me that you never made a wrong turn when you first got here.” 

“Well—” 

“Stop toying with the boy,” Athos ordered as he passed by the area where d’Artagnan had been waiting for muster to be over. “Aren’t you two supposed to be out patrolling?” 

“On it,” Porthos said, grabbing Aramis’s arm and moving them towards the garrison’s exit. 

And just like that he was alone; it seemed to be a common occurrence in his life. 

Not knowing anyone else at the garrison, and not having any extra funds meant he had two options: spend the day in his guest quarters or explore the streets of Paris. Given all the trouble he had encountered in and around the city, he was tempted to stay in his room for the day despite the likelihood of once again ending up lost in his thoughts. 

However, as he was walking to his room, he remembered something his mother had always been fascinated about: La Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris. The priest in his area, Father Duchamps, had been born in Paris and he’d waxed poetic over the cathedral’s grandeur, especially the stained glass windows, from the first day that he had arrived in Lupiac. 

By finding his father’s murderer, d’Artagnan had done the one thing he had set out to do by coming to Paris. Perhaps before he left, he could do one thing for his mother and see the church she had loved to hear about. And, if it were possible, he would light a candle for his parents. 

As he walked, he thought of the stories that his mother had relayed to him when he had been a small child. For a short time at least, he could pretend that he needed to memorize every detail of his visit so that he could relate his experience of the place back to her when he returned home. If he hurried, then he could probably go there and be back before Aramis, Porthos, and Athos returned to the garrison. 

The cathedral was easy to find due to its mammoth size not lending itself to being overlooked. To date, it was the largest building that he had ever been in, and it seemed to have been built in order to command awe from its visitors. Being there, he felt incredibly small and was reminded of just how unimportant he was in the grand scheme of things, though he supposed that was the point. Everything pointed to the enormity of God and the beauty of his Creation. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but stare at everything in wide-eyed wonder, feeling every bit the Gascon farm boy out of his depth in the big city. 

Yet, for the first time in the days since his father died, he didn’t feel so alone. He couldn’t explain it, and believed it could only be God who could bring him such peace during such a turbulent time of his life. He wasn’t as religious as his mother had hoped he would be, but in this cathedral, he couldn’t help but feel close to both her and his Maker. 

The stained-glass windows were everything Father Duchamps said they would be, and he wished his mother could’ve seen them and the images depicted within. The colors on display were a thing of wonder to him as he wandered about the place trying to stay out of the way of the priests and other visitors. 

D’Artagnan eventually found a place where he could light a candle for his family, gladly parting with one of his few remaining coins to go towards the buying of future candles. He sat on one of the pews and watched as the flames continuously flickered due to invisible breezes wafting about, letting the peace the place evoked gently wash over him. He wasn’t exactly praying, instead he was thinking of his mother, his father, and everyone else that had been taken away from him. He missed them all so much and wondered why he was the one who had been left behind, the one who had to wait to be reunited with his loved ones in Heaven. 

A sudden calm passed over and through him, which was followed by the certainty that all was not a bleak as it may seem. Hope that everything would turn out the way it was meant to be, and that he would not be left to flounder, had sprung up within him. Though he was still uncertain of what he would do with his life, d’Artagnan now realized that there was a future waiting for him that would make it worth living. 

As he walked back towards the garrison, his thoughts were still on the wondrous cathedral he had just left. He imagined how he would’ve described Notre Dame to his mother, and was confident she would have loved the fact that he’d been there in her stead. A melancholy settled over him and the newfound hope he’d gained, but he ignored it as best as possible and continued on his way. 

Not too far away from the garrison, d’Artagnan turned the corner and nearly bumped into Captain Tréville. As he apologized, he remembered that Athos was supposed to be with the older man and looked to see if the Musketeer was nearby. He wasn’t really in the mood to be reprimanded by any of them for once again leaving the garrison without leaving word. 

It was obvious that Captain Tréville had gleaned the reason behind his actions when he said, “Athos is running an errand for me.” 

“Yes sir,” d’Artagnan said, feeling uncertain if he needed to explain why he had left on his own. 

“Returning to the garrison?” Tréville asked. 

D’Artagnan nodded, then added, “Yes sir.” 

The corner of Tréville’s mouth lifted a little. “Walk with me.” 

The tone was unmistakable; he was being ordered to accompany Tréville, someone that he’d hardly spoken to since first making the man’s acquaintance. 

He fell into step with the Captain, not knowing what to say or even if he should say anything at all. 

“Was the meadow to your liking yesterday?” Tréville asked as they walked, interrupting the background noise of the city. 

“Perfect, sir. My horse very much needed the exercise.” 

“Good,” the older man said with a slight smile. “Porthos and Aramis should be done with patrol any time now. I imagine they will want to know that you did not overdo it again today.” 

Confused at first, d’Artagnan thought he understood what the Captain was not saying. 

“Perhaps I should go to my room and rest for a while,” he said, just barely keeping himself from phrasing it as a question. 

“Excellent idea,” Tréville said, a small smile gracing the man’s face. “I hope my men will be in better spirits today than yesterday when they found you gone.” 

Before d’Artagnan could answer, the Captain split off from him and went up the stairs to his office. He shook his head in disbelief at the conversation he’d just had and started making his way to his room. 

Serge calling his name stopped him in his tracks. He greeted the older man, who gently reprimanded him for missing the midday meal, and spent a couple of minutes chatting with him. D’Artagnan was dragged to the mess and handed a hunk of cheese left over from the meal. He grinned and thanked the older man for his thoughtfulness even as refused to take any more of the food Serge had offered him, still determined to not take from the Musketeers any more than he absolutely needed. 

D’Artagnan retired to his room, but he had no intention of resting. Instead, he got out the materials that Aramis had loaned to him and thoroughly cleaned his weapons and weapons belt even though he hadn’t really used them in the past several days. It was tedious but necessary work, and he soon lost himself in the motions required to do the job well. 

Startled by a knock at the door, d’Artagnan set the cloth in his hands down, sheathed his main gauche, and stood to answer the door only to find Aramis and Porthos on the other side. 

“When we reported in, the Captain said you were resting,” Aramis said without preamble, looking him over as if expected there to be some sort of wound gushing blood. 

“I’m fine, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, uncomfortable and slightly irritated with the close scrutiny. 

Porthos nodded towards the small table that d’Artagnan had been sitting at to clean his weapons and then towards the neatly-made bed. “I think we’ve got differing definitions of rest.” 

“Evidently,” d’Artagnan said, confused at how what he’d said had caused the odd look between the two older men. 

Aramis looked down at his feet a moment, and d’Artagnan braced himself for the news he’d known had been coming all day. 

“D’Artagnan we need to speak to you about—” 

The sound of boots scuffing the walkway interrupted Aramis and caused the three of them to turn towards the sound. 

“Captain Tréville said that you needed me?” the newcomer asked. 

“Yes, Athos. We were just about to discuss…” 

“Ah. Carry on,” he said with a dismissive gesture. 

“D’Artagnan—” 

This time d’Artagnan interrupted Aramis. “It’s alright Aramis. I’d already guessed that my time here was done. I had planned on leaving very early tomorrow morning.” 

“You’re leavin’ Paris? Going back home to Gascony?” Porthos asked, glancing briefly at Aramis. 

D’Artagnan crossed his arms in front of his chest a moment before dropping them to his hips. 

“It’s not like I have any other options,” he said, his head down and trying to remain calm. 

“You could stay in Paris.” 

D’Artagnan’s head snapped up surprised at the words, and from the expressions on Aramis’s and Porthos’s faces, it was Athos who had made the suggestion. For his part, Athos’s expression looked like a cross between surprised and vexed that those words had dared to pass his lips. 

Aramis was the first to regain his senses. “Is that what you want? To go back home?” 

“I don—I don’t know,” d’Artagnan admitted. 

Running his father’s farm was his duty as a son and as the man’s heir, but the longer he was away from Lupiac, the more he thought farming was not his destiny. 

“Then stay until ya do know,” Porthos said. 

D’Artagnan looked at Aramis and then at Athos. Only one of the two seemed to agree with Porthos; the other’s face was just as stoic as ever, giving nothing away. 

He thought about how much money he didn’t have, and ashamedly admitted, “It’s not possible.” 

Aramis traded a look with Porthos, who grinned, and Athos, whose eyebrow lifted slightly. 

“What if we told you that there are comfortable lodgings nearby and a landlordwho would be willing to be flexible about collecting the rent? You could write home for more funds, could you not?” 

Aramis’s words were a revelation to him. That idea had never once crossed his mind in all the times he’d thought about what he would do next. However, if he did write home, it would take close to a month for the funds to reach him. Could he survive for a month on what little money he had left? 

That hope he had felt in Notre Dame suddenly reasserted itself within him and suddenly it didn’t matter if he had enough funds. 

“I will write home tomorrow,” d’Artagnan announced. 

Porthos grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. 

“How about we go pay a visit to your new landlord, and then go out to the tavern and celebrate,” Aramis said. 

“But who’s—?” d’Artagnan began but was interrupted. 

“Oh, didn’t we tell you? It’s Madame Bonacieux,” Aramis replied with a smile that could only mean one thing. 

“She’s married,” d’Artagnan said, getting the feeling he would be saying that a lot in the future if he were to stay in Paris indefinitely. 

“Of course,” Aramis said, the same smile gracing the man’s face all over again. 

“Aramis,” Athos said, a warning tone in his voice. 

Porthos hit Aramis on the shoulder and added, “Stop.” 

Aramis lifted his hands in surrender. “So what say you to our plan for the evening?” 

“I’m afraid that after visiting Madame Bonacieux’ lodgings, you’ll have to go on to the tavern without me,” d’Artagnan said, regretting he didn’t have the funds to accompany the three men. 

“Our treat,” Porthos said after glancing at Athos and Aramis. 

D’Artagnan was about to refuse once again when Porthos repeated something he’d said only a few days ago. 

“Just accept it and leave it at that, lad." 

D’Artagnan smiled and, grabbing his weapons, gestured to the three men to lead the way out of his room. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ‘chandler’ is someone who is a dealer or trader; one who makes or sells candles; a retailer of groceries
> 
> Next time: Chapter Six: Stitches


	6. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little different in scope...  
> .  
> Timeline: Pre-series/pre-Family. Approximately one year after Madame d’Artagnan passes away when d’Artagnan was a boy.  
> .

**ooooooo**

"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything?...” 

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Six: Stitches**

_“It was a harsh lesson to learn, accompanied by the realization that he'd been overconfident in his assessment of his abilities, and he could almost hear his father's voice in his head reminding him of that fact as he'd done many times before.”  
_

_“Aramis moved the threaded needle into place and placed the first stitch, noting that d'Artagnan stayed still and only gave a minor flinch at the sensation.”  
_

_~~~~~ Chapter 6 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Alexandre couldn’t help flinching along with his son as the herb woman placed stitches at the back of his boy’s head. 

“Hold still,” Madame Gastone ordered. 

His son mumbled an apology, sat up straighter, and gripped the edge of his chair until his fingers were almost white. 

This was the fourth time in a year that his son had needed stitches as a result of some foolhardy action. It sickened him to realize that his boy no longer flinched as badly as he had the first time one of his injuries had required more help than he was able to provide. 

As the herb woman left, the Madame suggested to Alexandre that he learn how to stitch someone up in order to save her from repeated trips out to the farm. 

While helping his son to his room, he wondered if it would do any good to try talking to him and get him to understand how his actions affected others. 

Alexandre helped his boy to get more comfortable, neither of them saying anything aloud though their glances towards each other held a wealth of words and emotion. 

He started to leave the room but at its threshold, Charles finally broke the silence between them. 

“I thought I could do it.” 

Alexandre stayed where he was but allowed a tolerant smile to grace his face. 

“I know you did, Charles, but did you stop to think if you _should_ do it? You are still young and still have much to learn.” 

“But Father—” 

“My Son, you are much too overconfident in your abilities. If you are not careful, you will get yourself killed one day.”—Alexander looked down at his feet—“And so soon after your maman…I…I cannot bear the thought of losing you.” 

“You won’t Father,” Charles said with a confidence that belied his earlier foolhardiness. 

“You can’t know that,” he said, the words being forced through his clenched teeth. 

His boy’s eyes widened then lowered to the hands resting in his lap. He could tell his beloved child was fighting tears, and Alexandre was moving from the door to sit on the bed before he knew what he was doing. 

He laid a hand on his son’s blanket-covered knee. 

“You can’t know that,” he repeated more gently. “Only God knows when our time is at an end. Your mother’s death nearly killed me; I don’t think I could survive your…death any time soon – or ever.” 

“I’m sorry,” his son said in a voice almost too quiet to hear. 

His boy’s hand creeped towards his and ended up resting on top of it. Alexandre turned his hand over and captured his son’s hand, squeezing it tight for a long moment. He then let go and left Charles’ bedroom, hoping that this time, unlike the others, his words would be heeded. 

He doubted it. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Seven: Answered Prayers 
> 
> FYI, the next chapter will be posted a few hours later than normal.


	7. Answered Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel; Takes place several years before the events in Stitches (Chapter Six).

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these…”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Seven: Answered Prayers**

_“When he'd been younger, he recalled asking his mother for a sibling, the woman smiling indulgently at him as she explained that it was God's choice, and it would happen if He willed it.”_

_~~~~~ Chapter 7 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

As she sat polishing the silver candlesticks that had been a wedding present from her parents, Françoise heard a sigh emanating from the other room. She couldn’t help but smile at the sound, knowing that it would not be the last time she would hear it in the coming days. 

Her son was only a few months past five years old, and she and Alexandre had started to give him simple chores to do, such as feeding the chickens and collecting their eggs. However, her little one had not been satisfied with what he had been given to do. His desire to be of use and help the father he idolized was growing day by day, and he seemed all too eager for his carefree childhood days to end and be replaced with the hardships of working a farm. 

Alexandre had indulged their boy’s whims somewhat, but there was little else their son could do when he was still so small that wouldn’t endanger his life beyond what his parents were comfortable with. Françoise knew that other families put their children to work at the same young age, but those families had multiple children, whereas she and her husband had only been blessed with one child thus far. Neither she nor Alexandre could bear the thought of their one and only child killed in a senseless farming accident, something that was all too common throughout the province. 

Another sigh floats upon the air towards her. This sigh sounded different; it indicated her son’s boredom so clearly that she fears that he would do something rash to alleviate it. Françoise remembered the day just last week when her little one had attempted to feed the pigs without permission or help. Losing his balance, he had toppled over the fence and into the muddy pen. A couple of her husband’s workers had seen Charles fall and had rescued him before too much damage could be done besides some bruising from the fall itself and when a couple of the larger, heavier pigs had stepped on him. It was enough to scare several years off of her life, and because the boy hated being stuck indoors with a passion, Alexandre had confined their son to the house as part of his punishment. 

Françoise quickly finished with polishing the silver and set the candlesticks back upon the mantel of the fireplace. She had a list of household chores the length of her arm and tried to intersperse some of the easier, almost relaxing, ones throughout her day. 

Using the simplest phrasing possible, she called her son over in French and explained that the two of them would be going outside to collect the washing. If he strayed from her side for any reason, then his punishment would be doubled. Charles haltingly asked a couple of clarification questions, still unused to the new language that he had been learning for the past several months, but nodded his acceptance quickly, looking happy at the idea of being outside for a few minutes. 

Alexandre wanted his son to be raised a gentleman in deference to her noble roots, and Françoise had begun teaching Charles the French language as part of that education, knowing that speaking only Gascon would ultimately prove a costly hindrance for him in later life. Soon she would start teaching him how to read and write, but for now, she thought getting a handle on speaking the language was more important. 

While gathering the laundry and folding it neatly into the large basket she had brought outside with her, Françoise asked her son questions in French, reminding him to answer _en français_ more than once. It was difficult sometimes to not laugh at the strange combination of the two languages spoken when Charles forgot the right word or phrase. She gently corrected him and helped him add to his growing vocabulary. 

About half way through their task, Charles surprises her with a question she did not expect. This question was asked more in Gascon than French, but she definitely got the gist of what he was trying to say. 

Her little one asked if he could have a sibling. 

At first, Françoise did not know how to answer. The one and only time she had conceived a child had ended with a difficult birthing and longer than average recovery. The midwife had told her that she might have problems conceiving another child, and so far, the Madame’s prediction seemed to be proving true. No matter what was tried, Françoise could not get pregnant. 

When she thought about it too much, she was saddened that her dream of a house full of children had not come to fruition. Equally, she felt shame that she could not produce more children, but that blow had been softened by the fact that she’d had a son to carry on the d’Artagnan name. At least in that, she had not been a failure. 

At this point, she did not think God would ever bless her with another child, and tried not to think about how so many children rarely made it to the age of majority. Her son already got into so many scrapes and it seemed he was not afraid of anything. She couldn’t bear the thought of ever losing him to death and prayed every night for his safety, health, and happiness. 

But how does a mother explain any of that to a child who was still so young? 

So that there would be no misunderstandings, she eventually tells him her answer in Gascon. Whether or not he got a sibling was entirely up to God. It would happen if and when He willed it to be so. 

That night, when she directed him in saying his prayers in French, Françoise heard Charles sneak in a sentence partly in Gascon about his desire for a sibling but especially for a brother. She had smiled at his attempts and made sure to teach him the words in French. 

That night, she found that her own prayers had changed. They had gone from asking for another child to humbly requesting that her son’s prayers for a brother would be answered. 

Françoise dies before she can see that God had answered her prayers – but not in the way she had originally hoped. She never knows that her son’s prayers are also eventually answered, and likewise not in a way that Charles had expected or had even dared to hope for. 

She doesn’t get to see her beloved son become like an older brother to two boys from a nearby farm. The three boys shared a deep friendship, a strong bond of brotherhood which lasted until her son’s friends, Alric and Mattias, were murdered by bandits. Their deaths had devastated Charles, who had decided then to give up on the idea of brothers, accepting that having them just wasn’t meant to be. 

Her only son would have to wait what would seem like an eternity before he was set on a path which was torn between justice and revenge. 

A path that would lead him towards his true brothers. 

However, as Charles set out on a mission to retrieve the criminal Bonnaire, neither he nor the three Musketeers he traveled with had yet to realize that fact. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it’s not widely known… The real-life d’Artagnan’s mother was named Françoise.
> 
> Next time: Chapter Eight: Obvious Care


	8. Obvious Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Takes place pre-Family/pre-series and post-Savoy. Can be read on its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the longest chapters...

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything?_ _What did these people do when…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Eight: Obvious Care**

_“Porthos had checked the infirmary first, not actually believing that Athos would go there voluntarily, but needing to confirm that the man wasn't there…”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter 8 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Aramis sat in the shadows of one of the buildings surrounding the garrison’s main courtyard. From where he sat, he had the perfect vantage point to watch the comings and goings of his fellow Musketeers. The most advantageous part about where he sat was that he could observe the others while he himself was not easily observed. 

Most of the time he did not hide away and isolate himself like he was doing at the moment, but ever since Savoy, he found that he needed the relative solitude every now and again. Considering the fact that he had been left alone with twenty dead of his fellow Musketeers, he didn’t really understand what triggered this need to retreat instead of surrounding himself with his living and breathing friends. 

Other times he did know why he sought solitary refuge. A careless word, a certain kind of glance towards him was enough to drive him away from his fellow Musketeers and into a fit of melancholia. He knew he was a vivid reminder of the disastrous training mission to Savoy. He knew that any recruit that had joined in the past few months had been taken aside and told the story of how he alone had returned when twenty of their brothers had been slaughtered and one had deserted. He despised the looks the recruits gave him, wondering how and why he had survived and if he knew that Marsac had been a coward all along. 

Thank God for Porthos, who encouraged the men to find something else to talk about if he caught them speaking of Savoy in Aramis’s presence. He and Porthos had been friends before the massacre, but in its aftermath, they had become like brothers, closer than he and Marsac had ever been. When everyone else had been avoiding him, afraid to say or do the wrong thing lest they remind him of Savoy, Porthos had done the complete opposite. He had made an effort to stay by his side, even if they never spoke a word. Porthos had also made sure he didn’t accidentally starve or exhaust himself by making sure he ate and slept. Aramis was slowly brought back into the fold because of Porthos helping him through the bad days when he couldn’t stand the fact that he had survived and questioned why he alone had come back from that accursed place. 

Today was one such day, but Porthos was out on a mission. More and more Captain Tréville had been sending he and Porthos out together, but for some reason on this mission they were separated. As a result, when the melancholic mood hit him, he’d retreated to the darkest shadows of the courtyard, wanting to be left alone but not wanting to _be_ alone. 

Therefore, with his perfect vantage point, he was able to observe those Musketeers returning from the day’s assignments and missions. To get his mind off of what he so desperately did not want to think about, but couldn’t keep from his mind entirely, Aramis assessed the condition and mood of every Musketeer who came through the main garrison’s main gate. 

For the most part, the men he observed were whole and hale, but there were a few who returned that were obviously in need of medical assistance. The majority knew to head straight to the infirmary, realizing that deadly complications could arise from an untreated wound. However, there was one man who consistently avoided the infirmary.

This man had joined the Musketeers shortly before Savory and had been quickly commissioned afterwards to boost their numbers. The commission was not undeserved as the man was already their best swordsman, especially when not horribly hungover. For the most part, Athos kept to himself, rarely engaging with the other Musketeers except when it pertained to their duties. 

Aramis knew that the Captain was frustrated by Athos’s drunken ways and was trying to get him to care more about the regiment than a bottle of wine. So far, the attempt had had mixed results, and the man’s bad days still seemed to far outweigh his good ones. As long as he’d been a soldier, Aramis could tell which men had the potential to be great leaders, and Athos was one of those men, even if the man himself did not know it yet. For the time being, the siren’s call of wine was far too strong for Athos to overcome. 

He and Porthos had observed Athos and had seen how the older man tended to eschew the company of his brother Musketeers, hardly getting to know any of his brothers-in-arms. Sometimes Aramis wondered if Athos was even really aware of what had happened in Savoy, knowing not many in the garrison would dare approach the man as well as seemingly being perpetually hungover. 

Porthos had commented once that he thought Athos was of the type who joined the military so that they could find a way to die quick but honorable deaths in service to King and Country. That thought had rankled him. Aramis couldn’t abide the idea of anyone throwing their lives away like that, especially since Savoy. 

Aramis had previously observed Athos return from missions, helping any injured to the infirmary but avoiding staying there himself even if it was obvious to anyone who bothered to pay attention that the man needed help. The younger Musketeers and recruits tended to stay away from Athos and his mercurial moods, and the men who were of age with Athos didn’t seem to know him well enough to be able to tell when the man truly needed help, not that Aramis thought it would be accepted if it was offered. 

He and Athos were not friends as such, but Aramis had enough knowledge of injuries and had been around Athos enough to be able to tell when the man needed to go to the infirmary. Yet, Athos avoided the place as if it were plague infested. 

From his vantage point in the shadows, Aramis had watched as Athos and the other three Musketeers of their team return from a mission that had quite obviously taken a turn for the worse at some point, if the bloodied, makeshift bandages were any indication. He watched as Athos helped his fellows towards the infirmary, but had quickly returned, meeting Captain Tréville in the courtyard and reporting on how the mission had been a success though they’d been ambushed on the road back to Paris. 

Given the slight slurring of the man’s words, one might think that Athos was drunk or, at the very least, still trying to cope with his latest hangover, but Aramis’s instincts were telling him otherwise. Apparently Captain Tréville’s were as well, if the extra inquiry towards Athos’s health was any indication. Athos admitted to the obvious bruising and the not-so-obvious by saying it was not worth a physician’s efforts when the other men needed more help. Tréville did not seem overly convinced, but for some reason allowed the deception, ordering Athos to get some rest. 

The Captain stood in place, watching Athos head towards his quarters, and for some reason not immediately moving off towards the infirmary to check on his injured men. Then, after another long moment, Tréville turned around and looked right at him. 

“What do you think: hangover or injury?” his captain asked, likely knowing that he’d been there the whole time. 

Aramis reconsidered what he’d seen and compared it to the little he knew about Athos. 

“Injury,” he replied, feeling confident in his assessment. 

Tréville nodded in agreement and said, “He avoids the infirmary.” 

“I’ve noticed,” Aramis said. 

The Captain tipped his head in the direction of Athos’s room. 

“You two are friendly, on good enough terms?” 

“About as good as anyone can be with him,” Aramis replied. 

“You have of late been increasing your knowledge of how to treat injuries, have you not?” Tréville asked. 

Aramis was only partially surprised that the Captain had known that. After Savoy, he’d become hyper aware of his fellow Musketeers’ injuries and could no longer abide any unnecessary death out in the field due to treatable injuries. He hadn’t asked for permission to do it, but he’d begun to increase his knowledge of medicine beyond the basic training all Musketeers received. 

“Yes, Captain,” Aramis finally replied. 

“Will you—?” 

“Of course,” he said, though he didn’t quite feel up to being around people let alone someone who habitually drove others away from him. 

However, his desire for isolation was hard-pressed to ignore the part of him that Savoy had awakened, the part of him that could not stand to let an injured man remain untreated. 

“Thank you,” Captain Tréville said, looking relieved. 

The captain then headed towards the infirmary and Aramis went to Athos’s room via his own in order to gather a few things he thought he might possibly need. 

Closed fist raised towards Athos’s door, Aramis hesitated to actually knock, debating on how to approach the situation. Eventually, he decided to be himself and deal with whatever Athos threw at him in terms of attitude or temper. 

Aramis knocked and, hearing no sounds coming from within, knocked for a second time a minute later. When a third time knocking continued to produce no response from within, Aramis considered whether or not to look for Athos elsewhere, but his gut was telling him to stay put and keep at it. After knocking once more, hard enough to feel like he’d bruised his knuckles, Aramis decided to ignore propriety and open the door and check if Athos was even in the room. 

The door’s hinges shrieked at him as he opened the door a fraction and Aramis wondered how Athos could stand such a noise when the man regularly suffered from hangovers. Door slightly ajar, Aramis called out to Athos but yet again there was no response. Thinking Athos was quite probably ignoring him, Aramis pushed the door opened even wider, intending on stepping into the room. 

He was stopped in his tracks by an unexpected sight – Athos lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. 

Aramis rushed to the man’s side and crouched down, placing his fingers against the man’s neck. Blowing out a sigh of relief, he took a quick look around the room for a sign of what may have happened to cause Athos’s collapse. He found nothing obvious, which led him to conclude the man had barely had time to put his hat on the table before losing a battle with gravity. 

He carefully turned Athos over onto his back and began to survey the older man for injuries. Aside from the bruising that Athos had earlier admitted to Tréville, Aramis had eventually found a cut overlapping a generous-sized lump on the back of the man’s head by the ear, the bleeding having been hidden by the thick hair. The wound didn’t look deep enough for stitches, but he was concerned by how long Athos had already been unconscious. 

After several tries, Aramis finally was able to get Athos to regain some semblance of consciousness, enough so that they could get the older man over to the bed. The change in altitude triggered Athos’s stomach, but fortunately Aramis recognized the signs quickly enough to avoid a mess by grabbing the chamber pot. His suspicions of a concussion were confirmed. 

Aramis cleaned the wound and applied a salve before helping Athos get more comfortable. 

Two hours pass before Aramis attempts to wake Athos once again. 

Athos slowly opens his eyes before squinting at the daylight seeping in past the edges of the lone window’s curtain. 

“Where?” he asked. 

“Your room,” Aramis answered. 

“Good,” Athos said. “Aramis?” 

Aramis is a little surprised that the older man knew his name, but the fact that he did was encouraging in that there didn’t seem to be any damage to the man’s brain. 

“Yes?” he replied. 

“Why are you here?” Athos asked. 

“I found you unconscious,” Aramis said, hiding a slight smile at the confused expression on the injured man’s face. 

“Oh,” Athos said before once again succumbing to sleep. 

Aramis felt confident that the older man would be fine on his own long enough for him to report in to Tréville and grab a few more things to help him get through the long night of observation ahead of him. 

He woke Athos every so often and their conversations, if they could be called that, were greatly similar to the first. Aramis was curious as to why Athos avoided infirmaries, but could not ever get a straight answer before the man fell back asleep. 

That mystery plus the monitoring of Athos’s injury allowed him to get past the melancholy that had once again begun to get its claws in him. He wondered how Athos would react to being thanked for getting injured once he recovered. Aramis thought of all the different ways that situation would not end well for him, and smiled at the idea of thanking the older man anyway. 

After nightfall, there was a banging on the door. When Aramis opened it Porthos was standing there with a tray of food and drink. 

“You’re back,” Aramis said. 

“Obviously,” Porthos said as he stepped forward, forcing Aramis to step out of the way or end up wearing the contents of the tray. 

“You have food.” 

“Well-spotted,” Porthos replied as he set the tray down on the room’s small table. 

“I thought you weren’t going to be back until tomorrow,” he said stepping to the table and pouring them each a cup of wine as Porthos sat down. 

“We were close enough to Paris that we decided to push on instead of camping out overnight,” Porthos replied in between bites. “The Captain said you were here and I thought I’d keep you company.”—he pointed a fork towards Athos—“Or watch him for a bit if you needed a break.” 

“I’m good. Thanks for the food though; I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.” 

Porthos grinned and took a drink of wine before asking, “How is ‘e doin’?” 

“I think he’ll be fine in a couple of days, assuming he’ll heed my advice and get some rest,” Aramis said. 

“Why isn’t ’e in the infirmary?” Porthos asked as he sat back in his chair to relax. 

“No idea. Haven’t you ever noticed that he avoids that place?” 

“Really?” 

Aramis nodded. “And this time—” 

“This time is for sleeping, not talking,” a voice laced with fatigue interrupted. 

“Athos,” Aramis said, getting up and walking to the bed. “You’re awake.” 

“Evidently,” Athos said before sighing and lifting a shaky hand to cover his eyes. “Unfortunately.” 

Porthos chuckled and Athos startled slightly, wincing a little as he carefully turned his head. 

“Porthos,” the injured man said. 

“Athos,” Porthos said with a nod of greeting. “Been keepin’ Aramis company, but I brought you something to eat if you want it.” 

Athos made a noise of disgust, which forced Aramis to cover an amused smile with his hand. 

“Something to drink instead?” he asked. 

“Wine?” 

“Broth,” Aramis said, but the expression on Athos’s face made him add, “Both?” 

“Fine,” Athos said, sounding as if he were doing them a favor. 

Porthos chuckled as Aramis poured the bowl of broth that had been left to keep warm into a cup. 

“Would you please?” Aramis asked, holding out the cup to Porthos. 

Seeing Athos struggle to sit up, Porthos instead went to help, but was stopped from interfering by the injured man’s glare. Porthos lifted his hands in surrender and took a step back. It was a near thing, but Athos managed to not dump himself out of his own bed. 

When Porthos handed him the cup of broth, Athos took a sip, grimaced, and asked, “My wine?” 

“After the broth,” Aramis replied. “I want to make sure it will stay down before I give it to you.” 

When ten minutes had passed with Athos slowly drinking the broth and it staying down, Aramis exchanged the broth for the wine. 

“Why are you still here?” Athos asked in a tone Aramis couldn’t decipher. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, glancing back towards Porthos who seemed just as confused by the question as he felt. 

Athos did not answer and turned to stare at the wall in front of the bed, only managing half the wine before becoming too tired to hold the cup anymore. Aramis rescued the cup of wine before it spilled and raised the blanket to cover more of Athos, not bothering to try to move the man into a more comfortable position until he was sure Athos was well and truly asleep. 

The next morning, Aramis was finishing cleaning his gun when Athos finally woke up. He watched as the older man adjusted to being awake and started to get up out of the bed. 

“I would go slowly, if I were you,” Aramis quietly said. 

Athos looked surprised to see him. “You’re still here.” 

Aramis grinned. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

An unidentifiable look crossed Athos’s face before it became a stoic mask. 

Once Athos was sitting on the edge of the bed, Aramis pointed towards his own head about where the older man’s injury was located. “May I?” 

Athos raised an eyebrow and looked at him a moment. Aramis made sure his expression was open and friendly, even letting a slight smile grace his face. Without saying a word, Athos lowered his head, presenting it to Aramis. 

He stepped forward and parted the thick hair, quickly locating the wound. It looked clean and, warning the other man, he probed the injury. When touching what must have been a particularly sensitive spot, Athos flinched, which prompted Aramis to apologize for causing discomfort. After that he kept a running dialogue of what he was doing, ending the examination by applying more salve and cautioning Athos to rest for at least another day. 

When Aramis was finished, Athos thanked him. Aramis then went to gather his weapons, explaining that he and Porthos were due at the palace for parade duty. When he asked if he could stop by and check in on Athos later in the day, the man gave him another indecipherable look before nodding once. 

About five weeks later, Aramis was just about to leave for a late night rendezvous when there was a knock on his door. Thinking Porthos would be the only one to come by at such an hour, Aramis had a quip about the dangers of gambling on the tip of his tongue as he answered the door. However, the person on the other side of the door was not Porthos but Athos, blood trailing down the left side of his face. 

Aramis ushered Athos into the room and over to sit on his bed. The other man was largely silent, only answering the questions put to him. Aramis determined that stitches were needed to close the deepest part of the wound, and asked if Athos would be amenable to that. Before he began, Aramis admitted that he wasn’t as practiced at placing stitches as a physician and offered to escort Athos to the infirmary, but the other man refused without any explanation. 

As he worked, Aramis again made plain what he was going to do and why, sensing that it made Athos more comfortable while being treated. In return, Athos surprised him by volunteering what had happened to him. 

Three against one in a bar fight did not sound too sporting, especially when one of the men had blindsided him by hitting him with a tankard. Without thinking about what he was saying, Aramis casually remarked that had he and Porthos been there, it would have been an even fight and they would easily have been victorious. 

Athos stiffened a moment before nodding once and saying, “Perhaps.” 

Aramis suddenly felt at a crossroads, that his next words would decide something beyond his current understanding. 

“Well, how about you invite us to that tavern as a thank you for patching you up, and we’ll prove it to you.” 

Athos seemed to think about that for a minute before the corners of his mouth lifted slightly and he nodded. 

Seven weeks after that, the three of them were spending a lot of time getting to know each other better. It seemed that all Athos had needed was someone willing to take the time to get to know him in order for him to open up a bit. The man’s inconsistent moods were difficult to navigate around, but despite that he and Porthos found Athos to be intelligent and possessing of a very dry wit. 

Captain Tréville must have noticed their growing friendship, because he started assigning the three of them to work together whenever he could. Aramis also noticed that his own fits of melancholia were fewer than they had been before he got to know Athos. He had no idea why that was the case, simply accepting the idea and enjoying life more than he ever had since Savoy. 

As their friendship continued to grow, Aramis couldn’t imagine not having both Porthos and Athos as his best friends and thanked God for bringing them into his life. They each had their personality quirks and their own way of doing things, but somehow they fit together, and over time had become almost inseparable. 

It wasn’t until a year or so later that Aramis found out why Athos was so against both infirmaries and physicians, coming only to him for treatment when possible. Athos’s experiences as a child under an incompetent, nearly abusive physician’s care would definitely cause a person to be wary of all those who professed to be a healer. Athos admitted that it was Aramis’s obvious care for a near stranger that had had him seeking the sharpshooter’s help that second time. 

After Savoy, Aramis had made the decision to increase his knowledge of wounds and illnesses, vowing to never treat them as if they were separate from the person as he had observed far too many physicians doing. 

If Captain Tréville hadn’t sent him after Athos, if he hadn’t made that vow, if…a lot of things, then he and Porthos would’ve missed out on a brotherhood with Athos that made them a family by choice and of the heart, willing to do anything for each other, including risk their lives for one another. 

Aramis smiled and thought that perhaps their friendship was just meant to be. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Nine: Chores


	9. Chores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: After Getting to Know You (Chapter Five) and around the time of Chapter 7 of “Family.”

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything?_ _What did these people do when their families shrank?...”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Nine: Chores**

_"Maybe he got delayed by something at the house?" Porthos suggested, knowing that d'Artagnan had begun to assist Madame Bonacieux with various chores when her husband was away.  
~~~~~ Chapter 9 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

The first time, d’Artagnan could laugh it off and say that he was just doing Constance a favor. It hadn’t been the whole truth, but close enough that he hadn’t felt like he was lying. 

The second time, d’Artagnan shamefully pretended he hadn’t seen the older man and had turned a corner several blocks before he’d needed to in order to avoid meeting him. He’d gotten lost, which had served him right, but at least he had avoided having to explain what he was doing. There had also been the side benefit of learning a little more about how to get around Paris. 

The third time, he saw the Musketeer across the crowded square and was pretty sure Porthos had seen him, but d’Artagnan kept walking as if he hadn’t seen anyone he knew. He was beginning to think Porthos might not have seen him when… 

“D’Artagnan!” 

The Gascon froze mid-step and almost overbalanced, but managed to catch himself in time. He considered making another shameful and admittedly cowardly retreat, but decided in the end that enduring Porthos’s ridicule was the better option for his conscience. It wouldn’t be the first time Porthos and the others had teased him for one reason or another. 

And, if he were honest with himself, he kind of didn’t mind the teasing. He had grown to like the three Musketeers despite himself and saw their gentle – mostly – teasing as a sign that they were beginning to like him as well. Maybe one day they might even consider him a friend. 

Porthos approached and he made himself smile, nervous at being caught out by the older man once again. The Musketeer glanced at what he was carrying, then at him before smiling broadly. 

“Another _favor_ for Madame Bonacieux?” Porthos asked. 

D’Artagnan nodded, not wanting to say more than he needed to and embarrassed that he’d been caught picking up ingredients for the meal that Constance was going to make later that morning. The last time that Porthos had seen him out where he normally wouldn’t be, he had multiple bolts of cloth in his arms that were to be delivered to one of Monsieur Bonacieux’ customers. 

He wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that he was doing the shopping for Constance – he’d done that many times in the past for his father after his mother had passed away. It was the reason why he was doing these “favors” for Constance that was slightly humiliating to him. 

“Been doin’ a lot of _favors_ for her lately,” Porthos stated in a tone that suggested there was something untoward going on. 

D’Artagnan glared at the older man. “She’s married.” 

He then began walking away before he could say something that he would regret. His place, if you could call it that, among the Musketeers was informal and tentative; he didn’t want to do anything to risk losing his chance to become a Musketeer. He didn’t think he could bear the shame so soon after making the choice to stay in Paris given that he had so little funds with which to survive until his letter requesting funds reached Lupiac. 

Porthos easily caught up to him and kept stride with him as he made his way towards the cheese monger to buy a small wheel of Cantal cheese. D’Artagnan mostly ignored Porthos’s presence, still trying to calm down from the man’s earlier words. Why did the three Musketeers have to say things like that about Madame Bonacieux? 

His landlord’s wife is a good and kind woman and didn’t deserve insinuations of that kind. He would cheerfully admit to liking Constance, but not in that manner. She was starting to be a good friend to him, not completely ignoring his presence as he’d heard some landlords were wont to do with their tenants. He was treated as if he were a person and not just the money he brought to the household. 

Constance seemed to represent a sort of calm in the midst of his stormy life. When he had explained that being able to pay the full amount due for his rent would take some time, she had convinced her husband to let d’Artagnan trade his assistance with household chores for a part of the money due. Generally, he had been tasked to help Constance out when Monsieur Bonacieux was away on his buying trips, doing a variety of things that he’d learned to do on the farm. 

It relieved his conscience about his being in debt to the Bonacieux and helped take some of the burden off of Constance when she was left to run the household and business entirely on her own. A mutually beneficial situation with the added bonus of having someone else he could talk to when he needed it. 

Though he knew that the three men were very much aware of his dwindling funds, he just couldn’t bring himself to explain what he was doing and why it sometimes made him a few minutes late to the garrison. Was it shame? Embarrassment? Or was it something else? Sometimes d’Artagnan thought he didn’t want the others to know about his exact money situation because he didn’t want the older men to think less of him or think he wasn’t cut out to be a Musketeer. 

Porthos kept silent as d’Artagnan purchased the cheese and continued to keep him company as he turned back towards the Bonacieux’ house. 

As they walked, Porthos said, “I’ve seen you before… Saw you once in another part of the city delivering cloth to a house.” 

D’Artagnan made a noncommittal noise and had to concentrate very hard in order to not flinch, because the time Porthos was likely speaking about was the time he’d pretended not to have seen the older man. 

“I also saw you on the roof a couple of days ago… Fixing a leak?” 

D’Artagnan nodded, having resolved to not lie to someone he was beginning to consider a friend. 

“Need help?” Porthos asked. 

The question surprised him so much that he almost tripped over his own feet. Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder to help steady him, and he managed to not drop any of his purchases. 

He grinned his thanks to Porthos and replied, “No…but I thank you for offering. I used to be the one to do the roof repairs back home.” 

Sharing that detail made d’Artagnan think of his father, which then led him to think about the last time he had made repairs on his own house’s roof. This naturally reminded him of how much his father’s loss still felt like a deep, dark hole that would never again be filled. 

He felt a hand grasp his shoulder once again and looked up to see an understanding smile on Porthos’s face. It seemed to him that the other man knew what it was to lose a parent and suddenly be left alone. D’Artagnan’s mouth lifted in a small smile; he knew it was a brittle thing, but Porthos didn’t seem to notice or care. 

“Have you had any word yet about funds coming from home?” the Musketeer asked. 

It was a near thing for him to not hang his head in shame. 

“Not yet,” he replied, getting the feeling that Porthos knew exactly what was going on in regards to his chores. 

“These _chores_ won’t be interfering with your training will they?” 

“They won’t,” d’Artagnan assured the other man, hoping the Bonacieux’ wouldn’t make a liar out of him. 

Porthos’s answering smile left him with the feeling that the three Musketeers might not mind having him around so much after all. 

It was a good feeling. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Ten: The Message


	10. The Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene; Takes place between Chapters 10 and 11 of “Family”. Post Chores (Chapter Nine). Minor character’s POV.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears,…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Ten: The Message**

_“While the Captain had already punished the three men responsible for the young man's condition, the three friends also doled their own retribution, until the word silently spread throughout the garrison that d'Artagnan was not to be toyed with again.”_

~~ _~~~~~ Chapter 10 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Most people think that because a person is in service, that they are deaf, dumb, and blind to the comings and goings of those people they work for. 

For some, that may be the case, but for the vast majority that is simply not true and people were naïve if they thought otherwise. Servants, domestics, retainers, etc. basically chose to not let on that they knew or understood more than their employers and masters thought they did. 

Servants, good servants, the _best_ servants are capable of fading into the background of wherever they are employed. People forget that they are even there, and if anyone does realize, then it is assumed that the servant neither cared what was going on nor was paying any attention. 

Make no mistake, those who are in service of some kind _are_ paying attention – they are just experts at making you think they aren’t. If masters and employers only realized what secrets that servants or other, lower class workers were privy to, then who knows what might happen or how many people would lose their lives in order to keep those secrets. 

The vast majority of people in service have no choice but to keep their masters’ secrets, lest they be punished or thrown out into the unforgiving streets. For those who do have a choice, it is loyalty that keeps these people perpetually deaf, dumb, and blind. It is loyalty bought with good pay or good treatment. Sometimes it is because there is a fear that a secret’s revelation would be traced back to them. 

For Serge, that loyalty had been bought long ago through pride of service, his duty to King and Country, and gratitude for being given a place by Tréville despite no longer being able to serve on the front lines alongside his brothers-in-arms. Selfishly, he remains loyal because he enjoys helping the next generation of soldiers reach their full potential even if his current contribution consisted primarily of keeping the men of the Musketeers’ garrison well fed. 

The young Gascon, d’Artagnan, came to the Musketeers in a whirlwind, challenging the Inseparables to a duel and yet somehow had remained welcome amongst them. Serge has seen for himself that the whirlwind has died down to a gentle breeze in comparison, bringing change with it, but that the lad still has the ability to become a gale force capable of much destruction. 

D’Artagnan seems all too adept at finding himself in the eye of the storm, as was the case with the training “incident” with three of the Musketeers that the boy did not usually associate with – Rioux, Barteau, and Girardot. 

Serge hadn’t personally seen what had happened, but he had overheard enough details from the Musketeers who had been on hand. He’d also had plenty of opportunities to overhear details from one of the men involved. 

Because of the punishments assigned to the brawlers, Captain Tréville had given him the help that he needed while his usual kitchen boy was out recovering from being injured in an accident with the oven. Pierre had not been paying attention and had consequently made an error which left him with a large, nasty burn on his arm. He had needed some help until the boy could return to work and Rioux had been assigned to him for a week. 

Rioux knew next to nothing about working in a kitchen and Serge mainly had him doing prep work and fetch-and-carry type jobs. The Musketeer tried to save the choicest bits of food for his friends, Girardot and Barteau, on the grounds that their punishment was a job that they had neither signed up for nor were meant to do, but Serge stopped that behavior the first time he had observed it happening. 

Rioux almost constantly complained about the work he was being given and basically acted as if he did not deserve his punishment. The younger man often did not immediately follow his orders for the first day or so, but Rioux’ attitude quickly changed when Serge threatened to go to Captain Tréville. After that the Musketeer and his friends kept their complaints to themselves, but that didn’t mean that Serge did not overhear them. 

During that week, where Rioux’ punishment had inadvertently become Serge’s, the cook had overheard Barteau, Girardot, and Rioux talking about what had led to their “unjust” punishment. In their eyes they had been thoroughly training a would-be Musketeer as per their Captain’s orders – or their interpretation of those orders. They saw nothing wrong in their actions and laughed at how they did not give the boy a break, making d’Artagnan continuously train while they traded off and rested in between their “lessons.” They hoped the boy would take the hint that informal training arrangements such as d’Artagnan’s took away from the training of formal recruits and was not appreciated by them and others of the garrison. 

Just like many of the higher-born Musketeers, Girardot, Rioux, and Barteau did not notice his presence in the mess as they discussed these things, yet Serge heard every word. The three of them had ignored him just because he was the cook and no longer in active service. Normally, he did ignore much of the talk, but because d’Artagnan had been friendly and had been kind in continuously acknowledging his existence, Serge listened to every word. 

Serge listened to every word and considered what to do with the information he had gained. 

One thing he knew for certain was that his young friend, d’Artagnan, must have done something right in order to get Athos, Aramis, and Porthos marginally on his side. The Inseparables were not known for allowing just anyone – in fact, hardly anyone at all – to be included in their activities when off duty. The three men didn’t allow just anyone to accompany them on their missions. Athos wouldn’t spend time helping to train anyone who wasn’t a formal recruit unless he saw something worth cultivating, and the same was true for both Porthos and Aramis. 

Serge knew what had happened between Athos and d’Artagnan – both the minor misunderstanding about the apples and the vigorous sparring session that many had been watching with rapt attention. From what he’d overheard, Athos had gone after d’Artagnan like a man possessed in his efforts to teach the boy a lesson about feinting during a sword fight. Serge couldn’t think of anyone better suited than Athos to teach the boy what he was doing wrong. 

Some of the Musketeers had commented that Athos had seemed angry at d’Artagnan, hence the lesson ending in a minor wound on the boy’s forearm. According to Barteau, the wound had been well-deserved if the boy was incapable of learning how to defend against such a simple tactic. Others thought that the flaw in the boy’s technique would be corrected with time and experience. 

Athos was known to have a mercurial mood, but usually not one to lose his temper. D’Artagnan had managed to mostly keep up with the older man seemingly allowing Athos to blow off some steam, the injury being an unfortunate accident. 

As someone who primarily existed in the background of garrison life, he was aware of more than most realized. The Captain had long ago discovered that fact and they often had private discussions about what Serge had overheard or observed happening within the garrison’s walls. Because of all the times they had saved each other’s lives as soldiers as well as being some of the first to be commissioned as Musketeers, Serge trusted Tréville to not implicate him as the source of the information. The intelligence was used solely to benefit the Musketeers in order to increase the fellowship among them, leading to increased proficiency in working together which ultimately benefited King Louis and France. 

Once the week of punishment was over for the three instigators, he and Tréville had spent an evening discussing recent events. Serge praised Porthos for defending the young Gascon despite still recovering from a severe injury. He thought it admirable that Porthos was not willing to allow d’Artagnan to be bullied under the guise of training and an overly-broad interpretation of orders. 

He couldn’t help but feel pride in the fact that when d’Artagnan finally gave a full report of the incident, the boy had relayed the details in such a way that every word was the truth though no blame was laid on any of the Musketeers’ shoulders. Tréville had reduced the boy’s punishment down to one full day in the stables instead of the original seven days assigned to bring home the point that withholding information could cause problems or loss of life in the field. 

Serge had since learned that d’Artagnan’s willingness to submit himself to punishment by the Captain, even though he was not an official recruit, had managed to garner some goodwill with many Musketeers. The cook had also learned that there were definitely some of the men, including Rioux, Barteau, and Girardot, who were unhappy with d’Artagnan’s informal status and the fact that the Inseparables were taking valuable time to train him. Surely, there were more worthy young men, actual recruits, who deserved to work with the best of them. 

Once the week of punishment was over for the three instigators and he had his kitchen back to himself, Serge had overheard them telling several of their brother Musketeers their version of the events. It seemed that they were trying to get the Musketeers to turn against the boy and to get help in permanently driving d’Artagnan out of the garrison. This was something he could not let stand when he thought that d’Artagnan, if given the chance, had boundless potential to be one of the best of them. 

One morning, when d’Artagnan had not yet arrived at the garrison, Serge found a way to casually inform the Inseparables about what he’d overheard, acting as if the three men wouldn’t care about the intelligence. When he’d left to go back into the kitchen, he thought he’d heard the word “retribution” being bandied about. The thought of what those three would come up with had made him smile for the rest of the day. He made a note to himself to talk to the Captain about the information he’d shared with Porthos, Aramis, and Athos in hopes that Tréville might be able to unofficially aid in the three Musketeers’ plans for retribution. 

At the next muster, Serge was on hand to witness Captain Tréville providing the perfect means of allowing Porthos, Athos, and Aramis to get their just retribution – so long as the men realized the chance that they were being given. Serge only hoped that d’Artagnan remained ignorant of the three Musketeers’ plans as he thought the boy’s Gascon pride would not be able to handle it. He thought it was probably a good thing Tréville had given the boy the day to help his landlord finish fixing the roof before the next storm rolled in. 

Tréville had what men who were not assigned missions split up into seemingly random groups to work on the various skill sets. Serge had to smile when he saw the recognition dawn on Athos’s face before a positively feral expression replaced it. Athos had quickly gestured to Aramis and Porthos, and after less than a minute’s discussion, they all had one version or another of mischievous expressions on their faces. Serge still had work to do, but he decided it could wait just to see what Aramis, Porthos, and Athos would do to the poor, unsuspecting Musketeers who had dared to hurt a young man he had a feeling would become a great and dear friend to the three men. 

Porthos and Rioux had been assigned to the same group of Musketeers waiting to practice their skills at hand-to-hand combat. Porthos, as usual, dominated the group, winning every practice bout, but only one of the matches held any particular interest for him. Serge moved from his place in the background just in time to see a wicked grin steal over Porthos’s face when the man he was next paired with was Rioux. For his part, Rioux didn’t seem to understand why that wicked grin being aimed at him meant that he was in serious trouble. 

And serious trouble is _exactly_ what Rioux quickly found himself to be in. Porthos was as skilled as usual, but also seemed unusually vicious in his approach to the match. The larger Musketeer seemed particularly determined to do some serious damage, but held back just enough to not cost him his commission. Serge saw Rioux get thrown to the ground more than once and Porthos “accidentally” connect with the man’s ribs. By the time they had finished, Rioux could barely stand up straight and Porthos looked as if he had just won the biggest jackpot ever. 

Serge slipped back into the shadows and wandered over to where the Musketeers conducted target practice. Aramis and Girardot had been assigned to this group to train. When the men realized that Aramis was in their group, Serge heard more than one groan of dismay because they knew there was no chance to beat the marksman’s skill. Serge honestly didn’t know how Aramis intended on settling the score with Girardot, but guessed that the man might lean towards something he’d heard about in church once: an eye for an eye. Serge just hoped that Aramis didn’t take that concept too far. 

In the end, Aramis’s form of retribution was over almost too quickly. All the men took their time to load their weapons and started taking turns at the targets provided. Aramis aimed and fired his pistol in rapid succession, easily hitting his target’s bullseye dead center. Aramis then stepped out of the way to allow someone else to shoot while he reloaded his weapon. Just as Girardot was about to step up and take aim, the sound of a lone pistol going off rent through the air, hitting the outer rim of the bullseye and just narrowly missing hitting Girardot. 

Everyone turned towards the direction of the gunfire to see Aramis looking shocked and mortified that his weapon had “accidentally” misfired. Aramis carefully set his pistol on a nearby table, looking at it as if it had betrayed him before rushing over to Girardot and profusely apologizing for what happened. Girardot looked exceedingly rattled by what had happened and had to sit down for a while before he was calm enough to continue training, though the man never once hit anything but the outermost rim of the target. 

By the time Serge made it over to where the men were practicing sword fighting, Athos was just about to defeat a younger Musketeer named Soisson, while sending the occasional glare towards Barteau’s direction. It seemed Athos wasn’t even making an attempt at being subtle in his desire to dispense his retribution. Athos finally took mercy on Soisson and disarmed the younger man in a move that few could imitate with any precision. 

Athos had to spar with two other Musketeers throughout the morning before he finally got his chance to go up against Barteau. Serge had had to make a start on preparing the midday meal but managed to return just after the two started to circle each other, wondering who would make the first move. Athos’s expression was nearly blank and one of pure concentration; Serge could easily see that it was unnerving Barteau. It unnerved the man so much that it goaded Barteau into attacking first. Every move was countered with ease by Athos, who looked almost like he was bored and hardly making an effort – which was likely true. 

This only infuriated Barteau, who attacked with renewed vigor over and over again, but every move continued to be countered. Then suddenly it seemed as if Athos had made a mistake, which Barteau attempted to immediately take advantage of. However, the move was _not_ a mistake by Athos but a clever ruse to lure Barteau in by pulling his strike and feinting from the other side before disarming his opponent. It was a move familiar to anyone who had seen Athos and d’Artagnan sparring not too long ago. 

Athos picked Barteau’s sword up off the muddy ground and stepped in close to hand it to his now-defeated opponent. Serge was just close enough to the two to hear Athos say a few words to Barteau, which caused the man to pale slightly. 

“Let us hope that _this_ lesson will not be in vain,” Athos sneered before backing away. 

Somehow Athos had learned about Barteau’s “lesson” to d’Artagnan and had used it to teach the man a lesson of his very own. 

As Serge made his way back towards the kitchen, he had to fight to keep his expression neutral, especially since he kept encountering the confused looks of several Musketeers who were probably wondering what he was doing outside the mess hall so close to the midday meal. 

All throughout both the midday and evening meals, he had overheard various groups of Musketeers quietly talking amongst themselves, and saw them occasionally glancing towards the table where Rioux, Girardot, and Barteau were sitting. The new consensus seemed to be that the three men had gone too far in their training of d’Artagnan. The other consensus that seemed to have been reached was that the Musketeers were not to toy with d’Artagnan unless they wanted to face the wrath of Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. 

Later that night, Serge and Tréville were sitting before the mess hall’s fire, each enjoying a small glass of Armagnac brandy. Aside from them, the room was empty except for a couple of Musketeers playing chess in the far corner. 

“Do you think the rest of the Musketeers got the message?” Tréville quietly asked before taking a sip of his drink. 

Serge grinned and replied, “From what I’ve ‘eard, I think they got the message loud and clear.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The misunderstanding about apples is a reference to something that happened in the “Day Three” section of Chapter Five: Getting to Know You.
> 
> Next time: Chapter Eleven: Land of the Living


	11. Land of the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Pre-Stitches (Chapter Six). D’Artagnan is approximately 8 years old.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Eleven: Land of the Living**

_“I recognize in him the same suffering that my father endured when we lost my mother. I helped him back then and I would like to try and help Aramis, too.”_

_~~~~~~~ d’Artagnan to Tréville, Chapter 11 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

His father had done everything that was required and expected of someone burying a loved one. Alexandre had taken care of every detail without allowing the barest flicker of emotion to cross his face a single time – not until after the funeral. 

He had comforted his nearly inconsolable son, eaten the meals that the neighbors had provided, contacted the priest, and even got a decent amount of sleep – though he had refused to sleep in his bedroom since that awful day. 

However, it was only after their neighbors, friends, and the priest had left, and they were left alone, that his father reacted. Or rather, didn’t react. His father just stood at the foot of his mother’s grave for hours without his eyes ever once leaving the mound of dirt before them. Eventually, Charles had gotten tired of standing and sat down next to his father’s legs, not wanting to be parted from his only remaining parent for a single moment. 

When the first drops of rain hit his face, Charles looked up at his father and could finally see just how devastated the man was due to the loss of his wife. His eyes were overwhelmingly full of sorrow, and Charles could see the remnants of a couple of tears that had made their way down his father’s face, stopped by the scruff of beard that marred the normally smooth skin. 

As the rain began to come down harder, his father continued to stand as if a statue, oblivious to the deluge that was drenching them with cold water. Charles shuffled over and leaned against the tall, muscular legs, pressing his forehead into the pants legs in a poor attempt to keep the water off of his face. He thought about asking to go home, but another look at his parent’s face convinced him to wait as he was certain that not all of the water on his father’s face was due to the rain. 

Time went on without his father taking the slightest notice of their surroundings, while he got colder and colder from being completely soaked through due to the rain. Eventually, Charles could no longer help his shivering, and instead of crowding closer to his father’s legs to keep the rain off of him, he know did it in an attempt to get warm. 

His teeth were chattering when he finally felt a hand on his back. When he looked up, his father said nothing, but Charles could see the apology sitting alongside the grief in the man’s eyes. He stood and his father picked him up, shifting him to one hip. As his father began walking towards home, the man’s arms tightened around him and Charles remembered the last time his father had carried him. 

Just after his mother began being sick more often than she was well, he and his father had been coming back from the river with their catch of fish. It had taken them longer than his father had anticipated it would take them to catch enough food for their dinner as well as to preserve for the coming winter, and Charles had been tired of walking before they were even half way home. Charles knew he was lagging behind, but he couldn’t help it when his father’s legs seemed to be ten times longer than his. 

Eventually, his father had stopped so that he could catch up and just when Charles was about to apologize for making them run even later, a large arm wrapped around his waist before lifting him up. Charles remembered how his father had smiled the smile that was just for him and thinking that nothing could hurt him when he was surrounded by those strong arms. 

This time, in the pouring rain, he now knew that there were things out in the great wide world that could hurt him. Illness and Death had taken his mother from him and his father, and the strongest arms in the world could not stop the pain he was feeling. Charles buried his head in the nook of his father’s neck and cried harder than the rain that was pelting him from above. 

In the days following his mother’s burial, the headman, Noury, had to take over the running of the farm because his father’s grief had seemed to almost completely immobilize him. His father had yet to say a word to anyone since the graveyard, and continued to refuse to sleep in the bedroom where he had found his wife’s lifeless body in their bed. Charles has to prompt his father to do anything – eat, sleep, wash – and the near lifelessness scares him more than he’s willing to admit to himself. His mother has gone to Heaven and it seemed to him that his father wanted to leave him behind to join her there. 

Then one day, his father vanishes and cannot be found anywhere on the property. If he thought the lifelessness had scared him, then his father’s disappearance scares him doubly so. What would happen to him if his father never came home? 

It is nearing sunset when one of the workers finds his father at his mother’s grave. When they returned to the house, his parent looked worn and as if he had aged enough to be older than the village elder. Charles thanked the worker and took his father inside. Prompting his father to sit on the chaise longue that had become the man’s bed, he got the man’s shoes off and got him to lie down. 

Unfortunately, that was not the only time his father had gone off alone, and after the first couple of times he took on the task of bringing the man home. He would do his chores and then go off looking for his grieving father. Most of the time Charles found the man at his mother’s gravesite, but the rest of the time he could be found sitting alone leaning against the trunk of an ancient pine tree. 

He remembered the story his father had told him about the pine tree, that it was where the man had asked for his mother’s hand in marriage barely an hour after his grandfather had agreed to the match. After telling him the story, his father had lifted him up so that he could see the odd symbol carved into the tree trunk. It had been an “A” and an “F” combined to form one, off-kilter letter, which had been permanently etched there as a reminder of one of the happiest days of their lives. 

The days when his father was at the tree, Charles would get his father to stand, but before he would allow himself to be led away, the man would lay a hand over the symbol he had carved more than a decade ago. No matter how many times Charles witnessed the gesture, it made his heart break and tears come to his eyes, but he would not let them fall. His father needed him more than he needed to be sad about his mother. 

The longer his father’s detachment from life lasted, the more afraid he became that something would happen to the man. The problem was that he had no idea what to do to help his father. He had been trying to help the man as best he could but nothing seemed to get through to him. No words had come out of his father’s mouth in too many days, and the man barely acknowledged his presence on the not-quite-as-bad days. 

God knew how much he missed his mother; Charles would never be able to properly explain it in words. His missed his mother’s voice, her laugh, and even her really long hair that she always wore in a thick braid down her back. He missed everything about her. That’s why Charles couldn’t be mad at his father for how the man was acting and how he seemed to have forgotten that he had a young son who still needed him. Every night he prayed for his father and the answer for how he could help the man through to the other side of his heartache. 

The wife of the farm’s headman would come by and prepare food for them when she could, but she had four children and a husband to take care of, which meant that they often had to fend for themselves for the morning meal. Usually on those days, he would have to prompt his father to eat the bread and honey that Madame Noury would leave for them the night before. 

Suddenly Charles got it into his head that he could try to make his mother’s special porridge for his father to eat that morning. His father had said more than once that he had absolutely hated porridge when he was a boy, but the way his mother had made it was the only way he would ever agree to eat it. 

Before Madame Noury had left the night before, she had set a full pot of water by the cooking fire. Charles lifted it up to the hook from which his mother would hang it over the fire to heat and began making the porridge the way he’d watched his mother do it in the past. When it was finally ready, he went to lift the pot out and away from the fire, but forgot one crucial step. Charles forgot to grab one of his mother’s cloths that she used to keep from burning her hands on the pot’s handle. 

Without thinking of how hot the metal would be, Charles grabbed the handle. At first he didn’t feel the heat, but then suddenly his hands began to burn and Charles screamed in pain as he let go of the handle, nearly dropping the pot onto the ground but it somehow managing to settle back onto the hook without it falling. 

The pain was so great that it paralyzed him and he just stood there looking at the palms of his hands which had a bright red line bisecting them. The tears came fast and Charles didn’t have the willpower to stop them from falling even as a loud wail erupted from his mouth. Just as he started to shake with his pain, Charles heard a noise and looked up into his father’s eyes. In an instant those eyes went from distant and sad to present and horrified as the man rushed towards him. 

For the first time in weeks, he heard his father’s voice and if it weren’t for the extreme pain he was feeling, Charles would’ve rejoiced at hearing it. 

“Charles, what—?” his father said with a hoarse voice. Then, quickly assessing the situation, he continued, “O God, my son…just… Here. Let me see.” 

His father had looked at his hands and had gone for the bucket of water that they kept beside the cooking fire in case it got out of control. Setting it down, his parent had thrust his hands into the cold water, which alleviated much of his pain. His father had left his hands in the cold water for a long time and then put some of his mother’s special balsam on the wounds before bandaging them. 

Throughout the ordeal of treating his hands, his father kept up a steady stream of words that he knew were meant to calm him, but they did more than that. The sound of his father’s voice after being absent for so long made him very happy despite the pain in his hands. 

Some months later, Charles was walking with his father back from the barn and they passed the small forge just as it had flared up, sending sparks into the air that quickly disappeared. Suddenly, Charles was struck with the thought that if it hadn’t have been for the burns on his hands, that his father might have completely pulled away from the world and wasted away until Heaven opened its gates to receive the man. If there was anything good that had come from his painful injury, it was the return of his father to the land of the living. 

It hadn’t been something that had happened over night, but the day he burned his hands had only been just the beginning. Little by little and day by day, his father had started to once more take part in his own life and in his son’s life, helping his boy to do even the simplest of tasks that were now impossible due to the burns. It took another week or so before his father stopped disappearing and returning to work the farm once more, but it did eventually happen. 

Though the grief never completely faded from the man’s eyes, his father had found a way to carry on without the love of his life and remembered that he had a son that needed him. It had taken even longer for his parent’s smile to return, but even that could not stay away forever. 

That night his prayers were focused on thanking God for providing the way to help his father. Even if the painful means in which the prayers were answered was not quite what he had expected, he had his father back and that was all that mattered. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: The “F” stands for Françoise, which is the name that I gave d’Artagnan’s mother in Answered Prayers (Chapter Seven). 
> 
> Next time: Chapter Twelve: Forgotten


	12. Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene; Parallels the second half of Chapter 11 of “Family.”

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing….”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twelve: Forgotten**

_“Porthos and Athos arrived shortly after the evening meal had been served, having been kept late at the palace after the King and Queen had wandered inside to rest and forgotten to dismiss them.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter 12 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Porthos and Athos had traded worried glances all day as they stood guard over their King and Queen. While the weather remained pleasant and Paris seemed to be in between rain storms, their Majesties were entertaining the Dutch Ambassador in one of the private gardens. The ambassador had presented them some tulip bulbs some months ago and, now that they were blooming, they were being shown off to a select few. 

While the mess with Marsac had been going on, the rain had been nearly unrelenting, forcing the King to remain indoors. Louis easily got bored when cooped up in the palace for too long and unable to pursue his favorite activities of hunting and shooting. Therefore, the good weather had been a godsend to their King. 

Though it may have been a godsend for the King, and likely the Queen as well, it was completely inconvenient for two Musketeers who had been trying to keep a worried eye on their devastated friend. 

Captain Tréville had kept them off duty rotation for as long as he could. Unfortunately, with many of the other Musketeers out on missions, he and Porthos had been needed at the palace, which meant that they’d had to leave Aramis behind, still unwilling to leave his room. Their friend was most definitely _not_ getting better. In fact, Aramis seemed to be getting worse, withdrawing from the world – and them – more and more each day. 

Porthos had witnessed the direct aftermath of Savoy and the toll it had taken on Aramis. The larger man had commented more than once that Aramis was recovering at a snail’s pace in comparison to the recovery time needed from the massacre at Savoy. 

To Athos’s way of thinking, it seemed that Aramis’s behavior was due in part to the fact that his friend had realized that he was now the _only_ survivor of the massacre. When compounded by Aramis having been forced to kill the only other survivor, it was understandable that the man was having difficulties. 

Killing Marsac had not only saved their captain’s life, but it had also seemed like an act of mercy. Marsac’s heart and soul had died a long time ago in Savoy, and it had simply taken his body five years to catch up. Unfortunately, the wretched man had to be helped along by Aramis, who had not deserved such a task to fall upon him. Being a survivor was not in any way wrong, but to have to kill the only other one – even a cowardly deserter – was not something Athos would ever have wished on someone, let alone one of his dearest friends. Now Aramis was alone in knowing the intimate details of those scant moments, the only one left who had witnessed the chaos and blood. 

It was difficult, sometimes impossible, to be a survivor of a tragedy and to continue on as if your whole life hadn’t been turned upside down and inside out. Though his experience in no way compared to the disaster of Savoy, Athos knew in part what it was like to be the last remaining survivor of tragic circumstance. 

His family had imploded with Thomas’s death. His wife had been accused and hanged – or so he thought – for her crime of murdering his brother. Thomas’s fiancée, Catherine, had been recalled back to her father’s home – a home in which she had never truly been happy due to a step-mother who hated her very existence. His servants had been dismissed with a small severance and good references, in some cases breaking a chain of service to his family going back more than nine generations. 

There had been nothing left of his family except for him and the blood and tears of too many destroyed lives on his hands. He had left his estate as soon as he could escape and eventually found a new purpose in life with the Musketeers. But what had really saved him from complete self-destruction had been Aramis and Porthos and the bond of brotherhood that the three of them had formed over the years. They and Captain Tréville were his family of choice. 

From what Porthos had shared of his life over the years, his brother knew what it was like to be the last of one’s family. Without knowing who his father is, or even if the man was still alive, Porthos was, for all intents and purposes, the last of his blood family. His mother had been taken by fever much too early in life – both his _and_ her lives. 

None of them had much or any blood family left alive and were basically alone in the world, except for each other and the Musketeers. **  
**

His thoughts wandered briefly towards d’Artagnan as he wondered if the boy was alone now that his father was gone. From d’Artagnan’s actions and reactions throughout their brief acquaintance, it seemed as if the boy had no one left in the world. The boy rarely mentioned his past, but the brief glimpses seemed to indicate, for the most part, a more solitary upbringing. Athos also got the feeling that d’Artagnan was more than acquainted with the misfortunes of life. 

Athos couldn’t help the pang of sympathy that arose within him at that thought, but he soon quashed it, feeling annoyed that he seemed to care at all what a near stranger had gone through in life. 

He turned his attention to Porthos, whose anxiety over their absent friend had seemed to increase by the hour. Aramis might be retreating into himself, but Athos was certain that his friend would not do anything rash now that he had been left unattended. 

As much as d’Artagnan was still an outsider, the boy had managed to remain nearby, ready to help if needed. Athos felt certain that if the boy knew of their absence that he would keep an eye on Aramis for as long as necessary. Certainly, between d’Artagnan and Tréville, Aramis would be coaxed into eating something. 

Though Athos would never admit it, Aramis’s continued decline scared him. He and Porthos had tried everything they could think of to get their friend re-engaged in life, but nothing was working. They needed to figure out something new to try, otherwise he was— 

“They forgot about us,” Porthos quietly said, breaking into his thoughts. 

After the Dutch Ambassador had left for the day, the King and Queen had quickly retired to get some rest before their evening meal. Normally that meant that the Musketeers were off duty, but Louis had yet to dismiss them. Without their Majesties’ permission, they could not leave their post. They were stuck guarding a well-tended garden, deserted except for the servants cleaning up from the day’s activities. 

“Nonsense,” he replied, keeping his voice low so that the remaining servants could not hear him. 

Quiet descended on the garden after the last of the servants left, the man carrying some tent-cloth away. 

“I’m telling you, Athos, they forgot about us,” Porthos just as quietly insisted after a moment. 

Athos didn’t even bother to refute his friend’s statement a second time. He was absolutely certain that King Louis had forgotten about them. It wasn’t the first time, and it would most certainly not be the last. 

Many times the Musketeers were treated like furniture – oft used, but quickly forgotten until the next time it was needed. Such was the life of an elite soldier under the command of a fickle monarch. 

“Damn it!” Porthos said, his voice seeming to resonate loudly through the garden. 

“Porthos,” Athos said with a touch of reprimand in the tone of his voice. 

He was positive they were alone, but that could change in a heartbeat. He understood all too well what the other man was feeling. Of all the times for their King to forget to dismiss them… 

Porthos ducked his head for a moment before he said, “Sorry. It’s just—” 

“I know.” 

“We shouldn’t—” 

“I know,” he interrupted again. 

Athos had already had everything Porthos could possibly say go through his own mind many times throughout the day. 

“He probably didn’t—” 

“I know,” he said, beginning to lose his patience. 

They were both worried; there was no point in rehashing how wrong it felt to leave a distraught friend on their own. 

“Maybe d’Artagnan—” 

“Porthos!” Athos yelled without seeming to raise his voice; it was a trick that he’d learned from his father. 

Though it was likely the boy would visit, Athos thought it was just as unlikely that d’Artagnan would be able to do any good. D’Artagnan may have recently lost his father, but it in no way gave the boy any understanding of what Aramis was currently going through. Athos just hoped the younger man didn’t manage to do any more harm with any well-meaning words. 

He was just about to apologize to Porthos when he heard a noise coming from outside the garden’s perimeter. Porthos must have heard it as well because their hands went towards their swords in perfect concert with each other. 

“Monsieur Musketeer?” a voice called as the noise, now known to be footsteps, drew nearer. 

Not wanting to give away his position in case it was a ploy of some sort, Athos did not reply though he as quietly as possible loosened his sword a bit from its sheath. 

“Monsieur Musketeer?” the voice repeated as it came closer. 

In another moment a woman with blond hair stepped into the garden. Athos recognized her as one of Queen Anne’s current ladies-in-waiting. 

“Mon—Messieurs Musketeers,” the woman said with a smile, correcting herself when she noticed that there was more than one Musketeer present. “My Queen, with her thanks for your service, wishes you to know that you are dismissed for the day.” 

Athos dipped his head and bowed slightly. “Please pass on our gratitude to Her Majesty.” 

The Lady smiled again and said, “I will. Good evening.” 

“Good evening,” the two of them replied as the Lady turned and left the garden. 

After a moment, Porthos lowly exclaimed, “Thank Christ!” 

“Language,” Athos said with a quirk of his lips. 

Porthos rolled his eyes and made his way out of the garden, walking as quickly as possible towards where their horses were waiting for them. 

Athos’s quirked lips widened more towards a smile, but stopped before it could truly be classified as such. 

For all the relief that they were finally off duty and on their way to see Aramis, Athos suddenly had a bad feeling that something was wrong. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Thirteen: An Early Night


	13. An Early Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene. Parallels the second half of Chapter 12 of “Family.”

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Thirteen: An Early Night**

“They'd spent the night before together at the tavern and turned in early, both feeling unsettled by the absence of their friend.”

_~~~~~~~ Chapter13 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

The clang and clamor of their usual tavern surrounded them as they drank their wine. Normally, on a lively night such as this, he would find a card game to join and play for much of the night. More than one of the tavern’s patrons looked as though they had some extra coin that they could afford to lose to him. 

On a night such as this, Aramis would flit and flutter between them and whatever beautiful woman had caught his eye, eventually disappearing with one of them. Athos, regardless of the crowd’s temperament, would sit by himself in a darker portion of the room and slowly drink several bottles of wine. 

That’s what they would do on a normal night, but this was not a normal night. At the moment, Athos was sitting at what could almost be considered his usual table drinking his wine, but on this particular night Porthos had joined his friend. He had no interest in his typical pursuits and was content to remain where he was, occasionally observing the comings and goings of the people around him. 

There was no conversation between him and Athos, which was not really that unusual given his friend’s propensity for reticence, but in the glances that they sometimes traded, more than enough was conveyed between them. They were worried about Aramis. 

Porthos had been concerned that Athos would attempt to drink the place dry as he was wont to do when in certain moods, but his friend seemed content to keep to a slower pace than usual. Only those who really knew Athos would be able to tell the man was worried about something. Porthos wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was just as worried. 

Given how lost Aramis had seemed earlier in the day, Porthos thought Captain Tréville mad for allowing d’Artagnan go through with his idea of the two of them going out on a mission no matter how “simple” it was supposed to be. Though Aramis had many years of experience and was an extremely competent soldier and expert marksman, his friend was not currently in the best frame of mind for a mission, especially when accompanied by a young man who was almost greener than grass. 

He worried that the combination of the two men – one nearly inattentive and the other inexperienced – might make them ill-equipped to handle the multitude of things that could possibly go wrong on any given mission. Porthos felt he should take a page out of Aramis’s favorite book and pray for the safe return of the two men.   

Porthos suspected all the same thoughts were already coursing through Athos’s mind, and considered that reason enough for their lack of verbal communication. What more could be said that hadn’t already run through both their minds more than once? 

His thoughts drifted towards d’Artagnan, and Porthos wondered if the boy had also crossed Athos’s mind. He liked d’Artagnan and his company, but Porthos wasn’t sure he could trust the Gascon with Aramis’s life when his friend was so dejected and out of sorts. If Aramis managed to come back to them in better condition than when he and Athos had left him this morning, then he would re-evaluate his opinions of d’Artagnan. 

Athos poured the last of a bottle of wine between their two cups. They looked at each other, and Porthos could see from Athos’s expression that he wasn't the only one the tavern’s atmosphere was affecting. As time went on, he was feeling more and more unsettled by Aramis’s absence. He was fairly certain that Athos would want to leave as soon as finished his cup of wine, and found that he didn’t mind leaving early for a change. 

A few minutes later, Athos tipped his cup back to get the last dregs of the wine from it. When his friend set the cup down, they briefly locked eyes and stood as one. In moments, they were outside and walking back towards the garrison. 

Porthos fleetingly considered suggesting another tavern, but immediately decided against it. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he was beyond tired. Both he and Athos had been taking turns staying awake with Aramis at night and attempting to cajole him into rejoining the world during the day. Their efforts had mostly been for naught and their striving to help Aramis had left him feeling depleted of energy. 

Though they were both worried, perhaps they could use this opportunity to turn in early. When he looked over at Athos, the man was running a hand over his face and rubbing at his eyes, looking as tired as he felt. He knew it would require very few words to convince the man to take advantage of the unexpected respite and get some much needed sleep. 

For some reason, he had a feeling they would both need it to get through the next day. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Fourteen: Brother’s Keeper
> 
> Warning: Chapter 14 will likely be posted a few hours later than usual.


	14. Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Athos (Olivier) is between five and six years old. This chapter comes first in my overall timeline.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family…”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fourteen: Brother’s Keeper**

_“They'd ridden in that fashion multiple times as Thomas had been learning how to ride, Athos considering it both his duty as the older brother and his pleasure to teach the young man and keep him safe.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter14 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Olivier begged, pleaded, and even pretended to throw a fit until his governess finally consented to let him have his way. She had then proceeded to sternly scold him about appropriate behavior for one of his station. The lecture had lasted forever but he had thought it worth it to get his way on this one, very important thing. 

His governess, who hated nicknames and refused to answer to anything but _Madame Chenault_ , made him sit down on the sofa, and left the room for a few minutes. When she returned, she was holding a small bundle in her arms. Standing directly in front of him, Madame gave him some last instructions. After glaring at him for a moment to make sure he would follow them to the letter, she bent down and gently transferred the blanketed bundle into his arms. 

A tiny, little face was visible from amongst the soft blanket’s folds, and he finally had his first glimpse of his younger brother, Thomas. The baby, born almost two weeks prior, seemed to be deeply asleep and completely oblivious to everything that was going on around him. 

Olivier carefully shifted in order to get more comfortable holding his little brother, who was much heavier than he had imagined a baby would be. With Thomas’s head cradled in the crook of his right arm and the rest of the tiny body resting on his lap, supported by his left hand, Olivier stared at his brother, fascinated by how small the babe was and how it made him feel gigantic and clumsy all at once. 

Madame Chenault kept a close eye on him, likely afraid that he would do something to hurt his brother, but he couldn’t imagine ever doing such a thing. This was the first time he had been allowed to spend any time with his brother and he already loved him more than his parents. He had been waiting his whole life for a sibling – more than five-and-a-half years – and finally he had one. He was all the more thankful that it was a boy like him.

Finally a little more comfortable in what he was doing, Olivier lifted his left hand and brushed a finger up and down his brother’s tiny cheek a few times. Thomas shifted a little, but did not wake, and he marveled at how soft the skin was and how chubby the cheeks were. Olivier wished Thomas was awake, because he was curious to know what the little babe might think of his big brother. 

“Hello, Thomas. I am your older brother, Olivier. It is my duty to watch over you and keep you safe.” 

With those words, his brother opened his eyes and started to flail an arm in the air. Olivier caught it and squeezed the little hand gently, feeling a slight pressure in return. The pressure might have been unintended but, to him, it felt like they had sealed a bargain. He would take care of his brother – always. 

When he sensed his time with Thomas was growing short, Olivier leaned down and whispered into his brother’s ear. 

“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, Thomas. Hurry up and get bigger so we can play together.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Fifteen: Tradition


	15. Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel/missing scene to chapter 15 of Family; includes a flashback to when d’Artagnan was a teenager.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person….”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Fifteen: Tradition**

_“The celebration for Porthos' birthday was wild and exciting, beyond anything d'Artagnan had ever experienced growing up in Lupiac.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter15 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan listened as Aramis and Porthos planned out Porthos’s birthday celebration. The first hurdle had been overcome: they had received Captain Tréville’s permission to hold the party at the garrison. All the Musketeers and recruits, those men not assigned duty that night or away on missions, were invited to attend. The Gascon listened to talk of preparations and wondered at how elaborate they seemed compared to how he had marked the occasion of his own birth throughout the years. 

Because he was not a formal recruit and most certainly not yet a Musketeer, d’Artagnan is uncertain of whether or not he should attend the party. His presence was largely tolerated but rarely encouraged, so he is unsure of            what to do. In the beginning, he had thought Porthos might be open to friendship with him, but as time passed, it seemed that they were to remain nothing more than training partners and acquaintances. His failed mission with Aramis seemed to have caused Porthos to become even more reserved in their interactions. D’Artagnan found that he couldn’t tell whether or not Porthos had forgiven him for getting Aramis hurt even though the marksman had absolved him of any blame. 

In the end, d’Artagnan chose to attend Porthos’s birthday party despite the fact that he was never formally invited. He had explained his misgivings about going to Constance, who immediately called him an idiot and practically shoved him out the door after making him change his shirt. 

He enters the garrison tentatively, but when no one, including Porthos, remarks at his presence, d’Artagnan begins to relax. He watches the other men as they enjoy themselves eating, drinking, and laughing, and is overwhelmed by memories from a time that seems ages ago, though it’s really only been several years. 

The memories were of the last time he had ever made plans to celebrate his birthday and… 

_It had been a little more than six months since he’d learned that his two best friends had been murdered at the hands of bandits. The injustice of their deaths had given him the impetus to work all that much harder at practicing his sword forms whenever he had the time. He would make himself the best swordsman he could be with the lessons that he had been receiving from his father, who had learned as a child and had been in the regular army when a young man. Charles was determined to prevent the last of his family from being taken away from him through violence.  
_

_If only his friends had known how to defend themselves, then perhaps…perhaps they might not now be dead and gone to heaven. He might still have his friends to keep company with, to confide in, and to simply be himself_ _with. He might still be looking forward to his birthday.  
_

_When the friendship between him and Mattias and Alric had evolved until they had become as close as brothers, they had made a pact to share their birthdays with each other every year. Because their birthdates had all been within two months of each other, they had decided it would be easier to take turns celebrating together on one of their actual birthdays.  
_

_The three of them had found the coincidence of their birthdays greatly humorous and perhaps a little providential, thinking that they were meant to be friends with each other. They usually started making plans months in advance, and this year their celebration was to have been on his birthday. Now that his friends were gone, he didn’t exactly know how he would spend the day.  
_

_Had things turned out differently, they would all have finally been old enough to go on an adventure by themselves, their parents giving them the gift of time away from their work on their respective farms to do…something. That something had quickly become a trip northeast to La Gélise, in order to camp out for a few days where the river widened out to become a lake. That had been as far as their plans had gotten before Mattias and Alric had left with their father to visit an uncle.  
_

_That was the last time he had seen his best friends and brothers alive. That was the last time he had even thought about his birthday at all until his father had reminded him of it not too long ago.  
_

_When his birthday comes around, his father still gives him the day free to spend as he pleases. After a quiet breakfast together, where his father had made sure to have some of his favorite variety of apples available to eat in a bowl on the table, Charles heads out to the stables.  
_

_With no longer having any close friends, and afraid of making new ones lest they too be killed, he decides to spend the day alone. He takes some provisions and heads out for the day, riding his horse through the countryside. The wind through his hair, the sun on his skin, and the beautiful landscape of Gascony lift his mood for a time, but as soon as he stops for something to eat at midday, thoughts of his friends rush back to fill the inside of his head.  
_

_He thinks of all the fun he and his best friends had throughout the years that they had known each other, and somehow those thoughts lead to his mother. Death was a part of life; he had known that from a very young age, but must he lose all those he loves when there are so few remaining in the world?  
_

_Grief for his mother, his best friends, and other family weighs down his shoulders and bows his head. Fat tears drop from his eyes and in his solitude, Charles lets himself sob in a way that he hadn’t since the day his mother died.  
_

_Eventually the tears dry up, and after washing his face with water from his water skin, he mounts his horse once more and continues to ride, the feeling of the wind, sun, and freedom embracing him and lifting his spirits to greater heights than they had been since he learned that his friends had died. It is a lonely day but a good one despite the emotional turmoil still refusing to die down within him.  
_

_Charles returns home an hour or so before dark, the sky’s few clouds just starting to turn the color of the pink roses his mother had loved so much. His father is standing in the doorway of their house, waiting for him to come in from the stables. When he comes to a stop in front of his father, his parent hugs him tight and leads him into the house for a dinner consisting of his current favorite meal. His father never asks where he went or what he did, instead they simply enjoy each other’s company and talk of work that needed to be done the following day.  
_

_The day alone out riding his horse on his birthday becomes a tradition. When Charles is old enough, the day still ends with a good meal, but afterwards he and his father head to the tavern where the man buys him his first drink of hard liquor, a well-aged Armagnac brandy. This new tradition only lasts a couple of years, broken when his father is murdered at an inn just a few hours outside of Paris.  
_

_Now that his father is gone, he doesn’t think he will be celebrating his own birthday in the future. He couldn’t prevent himself from getting older any more than he could turn back the clock or hold back the ocean’s tides, but there seemed to be no point anymore. He could still go out for a ride on his horse as was part of the tradition, but there would be no longer be anyone waiting for him to come home, and he was so very far from his home now..._

D’Artagnan is pulled out of his reverie when he is accidentally bumped from behind by an obviously drunk Musketeer. 

His attention is immediately grabbed by Aramis who is standing against a post, balancing a melon on top of his head, while Porthos was preparing a pistol to fire. 

Though d’Artagnan no longer felt the need to celebrate his own birthday, one thing was for sure: Porthos’s party was more than capable of making up for it and definitely beyond anything he had ever experienced growing up in Lupiac. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mattias and Alric were first mentioned in Chapter 7 of “Family.”
> 
> Next Time: Chapter Sixteen: Outside Looking In


	16. Outside Looking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene. Post Tradition (Chapter Fifteen). Parallels Chapter 16 of Family, but mentions the past.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Sixteen: Outside Looking In**

_“While he was still somewhat uncertain of his place with the other two men, he'd felt their willingness to share of their knowledge so he might improve his skills, and found himself allowed, if not always encouraged, to be in their company during their off-duty hours.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter16 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

When out on missions away from Paris, it was only natural for him to sit with the three Musketeers, enjoying their company as they ate and drank at whatever inn they had stopped at for the night. It made no sense to ostracize himself from their company when it was much more prudent to have safety in numbers. The same was true when they had to camp out under the stars, though he made sure to give the others their space. 

However, when in Paris, he was uncertain what to do. D’Artagnan considered Aramis to be his friend, and was finally beginning to have a sense of belonging because of their friendship, but because of the other two Musketeers, he still felt himself to very much be the outsider. 

After a day of training with one of them, it was not nearly so difficult to figure out. On those days, especially if the men stayed at the garrison, it was only natural – he hoped – to sit with the three of them. None of them had ever said anything against him taking his ease at the table most of the other Musketeers had grudgingly acknowledged to be the sole territory of Aramis, Athos, and Porthos, so d’Artagnan thought it was acceptable for him to do so. If there were other Musketeers around, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but notice that expressions of surprise would quickly pass over their faces, which made him doubt all over again if he shouldn’t be sitting elsewhere, like the stables or in front of one of the practice targets. 

It was when they had been released from duty and the other three decided to go to a tavern for the evening that he really became uncertain of his place amongst the three Musketeers. He had taken up the offer to go for a celebratory drink after rescuing Athos from execution and had turned it into an open invitation. They never quite discouraged him but they weren’t all that encouraging of his presence either. 

When he chose to accompany the three men and sit with them, d’Artagnan was given the impression that they were willing to let him be amongst them. Yet, most of the time it seemed almost as if he were not even there, that he was invisible. He would be sitting barely an arm’s length away from the Musketeers and yet it felt as if he were leagues away given how little they acknowledged him. 

The first few times he dared to accompany the Musketeers to the tavern, he made the mistake of speaking up, and in return received looks that varied from indifference to near hostility. D’Artagnan mostly kept to himself after that, but he didn’t let that keep him from indulging in pretending he was one of them when outside of the garrison. They hadn’t asked him to stay away nor had they included him or encouraged him to join in, so he didn’t let it stop him from going along with them. It wasn’t as if he knew very many people in Paris and he often craved some sort of companionship, even if that companionship was disinterested at best. Half the time he would leave early and head home, feeling discouraged and lonely. 

After a while, they started to include him in their conversations, asking him questions about himself or his training, though most of the time it didn’t sound like they were all that interested in his answers. Aramis was always the most attentive of the three Musketeers and Athos, by far, was the least. 

Athos’s disinterest and indifference was starting to wear on him, and he couldn’t figure out a way to break through the man’s aloof and stoic exterior despite how much he had come to admire the man. For some reason, the older man’s opinion of him mattered a great deal. D’Artagnan didn’t truly understand why just yet, but just accepted it as a fact of life, hoping that one day Athos would consider him more than just a Gascon farm boy seeking adventure in the big city. 

Porthos had always been more accepting of him overall, but that had changed after his mission with Aramis during which they had both been hurt. After that, while Aramis had started to actively treat him as a friend, Porthos barely tolerated his presence and still seemed to blame him for their friend’s injuries. 

D’Artagnan found that he missed the way that Porthos had used to treat him before that ill-fated mission, especially with Athos continuing to behave as if he was an annoyance and as someone who barely knew which end of a sword to hold on to. Despite Aramis’s support and their newly-cemented friendship, d’Artagnan wondered if he wouldn’t soon be asked to permanently leave their presence when not on duty. 

In the beginning, d’Artagnan hadn’t known what to think of the three Musketeers. However, in a very short amount of time, he had seen how devoted they were to each other and greatly admired the brotherhood they shared, finding that he wanted to be a part of that brotherhood as well. 

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos were more than willing to share their expertise, but d’Artagnan was tired of being on the outside looking in, and hoped someday that all three would be willing to extend the hand of friendship towards him. 

Unfortunately, just when things had begun to thaw slightly between them, Porthos had been accused of murder, and d’Artagnan’s whole perception of the larger man had been thrown into disarray. Regardless of his feelings of friendship towards Porthos or even Aramis and Athos, d’Artagnan was determined to get to the truth behind the matter and find justice for the dead man even if it cost him everything he wanted. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses yet for the origin of the overall story's quote?
> 
> Next time: Chapter Seventeen: The Offer


	17. The Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Takes place before Obvious Care (Chapter Eight). This chapter and Chapter Eighteen are closely connected, almost a two-parter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday's Chapter 16 didn't post properly, so you might want to double check that you've read it. Thanks!

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Seventeen: The Offer**

_“Porthos did kill a nobleman.”_

_~~~~~~~ Aramis, Chapter17 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

_“…Treville witnessed what happened and, although Porthos disappeared back into the depths of the Court, the Captain eventually located him and offered him a chance to become a recruit.”_

_~~~~~~~ Athos, Chapter17 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Tréville was on his way back to where he’d stabled his horse when he heard it: a scream. Not just any scream, but by the sound of it, it was one belonging to someone young and female – someone who was most definitely terrified. 

There was just one problem: the scream had originated from within the Court of Miracles. Musketeers were definitely _not_ welcome within the Court, those souls living within its confines preferring to mete out their own justice when it was required. 

King Louis had sent him on an errand to the family of his father’s valet, who had also faithfully served the young King until he had retired. The man had just passed away and Tréville had been sent to convey the monarch’s condolences, unable to deliver them in person because he was meeting with the Dutch Republic’s ambassador and dealing with revisions in their treaty. 

The former valet’s family lived in a part of the city adjacent to the Court of Miracles. It had been too far to walk from the palace and he had not trusted leaving his horse unattended in such a neighborhood, so he had instead left it in a nearby reputable stable. He had been walking back when he heard the scream. 

Another scream rent the air, and he decided to forgo caution in order to investigate the matter. Just because the young person was one of the Court’s residents, it did not mean that she did not deserve help. Hand on the pistol tucked into his belt, Tréville entered the Court of Miracles uninvited. 

As he made his way through the maze of streets and alleyways, the inhabitants seemed to ignore him. Tréville thought he could hear someone struggling just before there was a noise which sounded like a choked off scream. He paused at an intersection before turning to head in a new direction, hoping his ears hadn’t deceived him. 

Tréville turned another corner and stopped mid-step. The sight before him was worse than he had originally thought. He immediately recognized the man who had a young girl in a choke hold. 

Baron Abélard had gained a reputation for his particular proclivities, a reputation for treating the citizens of the Court of Miracles as if they did not deserve basic human rights and treating them as if they were nothing more than his playthings. In particular, he preyed upon young boys and girls who had just barely reached their teenage years. 

As of yet no one had been able to get enough proof against the man for an arrest, but that was most definitely not the case on this day. The King would gladly accept his eyewitness account and finally dispatch the immoral man back to Hell where he belonged. 

He loosed his pistol from his belt and started forward, about to call out to Abélard just as a young, dark-skinned man came running into the dead-end alley from another direction closer to the Baron. 

The Baron startled and tightened his grip on the girl, drawing a dagger from a sheath at his waist and holding it up to her throat. As Abélard positioned himself so that the wall was at his back, Tréville decided to stay where he was, afraid of what the vile man would do to the girl if a Musketeer came forward. The young man moved with the Baron and that was when Tréville got his first glimpse of the face. 

It couldn’t be. 

But it must; the young man looked a lot like his mother, but on the angry face in front of him, Tréville could see that the father’s features were prominent enough to be unmistakable. 

Suddenly, he was reminded of the vow he had made to Belgard, the promise that he and de Foix had shamefully kept all these years. They had done what his friend had asked them to do and had kept silent. Tréville had never betrayed his friend, but it wasn’t too long before he couldn’t live with what he had done. He had searched for the boy and his mother for years but had never found any sign of either of them. Eventually, he had given up, thinking them both dead, but now it seemed that Fate, God, or what you will, had arranged it so that they would finally meet again. 

When Abélard yelled at the young man to back off and go away, the boy refused and warned the Baron that any injuries to the girl would be visited upon him two-fold. From the young man’s face, Tréville was absolutely certain the threat would be followed through. 

The young man took a step forward, and as the Baron took a step back he purposely nicked the girls neck with the knife. Tréville wanted to step in, but he knew that it would only make a bad situation worse; he stayed where he was and bided his time. 

Belgard’s son called out the girl’s name to get her attention, and tried to soothe her fears even as a little bit of blood began to slide down her neck. He then asked her what the King would do, and suddenly the girl was jabbing her obviously pointy elbow as hard as she could into her captor’s body. She was of just the right height for a direct hit to Abélard’s crotch. 

The Baron howled in pain and loosened his grip just enough so that the knife is pulled away from the girl’s neck and she was only being held by one hand tightly grasping the back of her dress. It was enough. 

His friend’s son charged the Baron, grabbing the wrist with the knife hard enough to make the man scream once more in pain and release his grip on the girl’s dress. The young man ordered the girl to run and in an instant she has gone down the alleyway from whence her savior had first appeared. 

Even as the girl was running away, Belgard’s son was forcing the arm holding the dagger down and bringing his knee up. The crack of the bones was unmistakable even amongst Abélard’s howls of pain. The Baron tried to double over in order to curl over his injury, but the young man was not allowing the movement. Through clenched teeth and in a barely controlled voice, the young man confronted Abélard with the knowledge that he was more than aware of everything the vile man had done to other children of the Court. The Baron started to speak, but whether to threat or defend would forever remain unknown because Belgard’s son in one swift move broke Abélard’s neck. 

Baron Abélard would never hurt another child ever again. 

A look of panic stole over the young man’s face as he let the body drop to the ground. To Tréville, it looked as though he hadn’t truly meant to kill the man. He began to step forward to let the young man before him know that he would not be charged for killing someone in defense of another, when from somewhere behind him, a man shouted that he is a Musketeer. 

In the moment Tréville took to turn and try to assure the newcomer that no one was in trouble, the young girl’s savior disappeared. 

Tréville could not help but be disappointed that he had lost Belgard’s son once again and vowed to find the younger man no matter what. He was impressed with the young man, impressed with his strength and his willingness to risk himself for others. 

It took a few weeks and much coin, but eventually Tréville and the man who killed Baron Abélard come face-to-face. 

The name the young man gives him was Porthos, and Tréville assured him that he was not in trouble for killing the Baron. In fact, after talking to Porthos for a short time, Captain Tréville had something else in mind – an idea that he thought would change both their lives for the better. 

“How would you like to become a Musketeer?” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Eighteen: Meant to Be


	18. Meant to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Begins several days after the end of The Offer (Chapter Seventeen). Takes place before Obvious Care (Chapter Eight).

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need not be defined…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Eighteen: Meant to Be**

_“I understand why you did you what you did and I know you're likely to act in a similar fashion in the future; that means I can trust you.”_

_~~~~~~~ Porthos, Chapter 18 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

When he had heard that the Captain of the Musketeers was looking for him, Porthos was certain that the man only wanted to arrest him for killing that monster who had hunted children as if they were prey before committing all kinds of perverted acts upon them once he caught them. 

But, after weeks of insisting that he only wanted to talk, Porthos was curious enough to risk meeting with the man. As promised, the meeting had not been a trap and after talking with the Captain for a bit, the man’s expression had changed, and suddenly he was being offered a place amongst the Musketeers as a recruit. 

At that point, it had been a long time since he had felt like he belonged at the Court, and he had begun to want more out of life than what he could have if he stayed where he was. He may have once loved the thrill and danger of being one of the best thieves they had, but somewhere along the way, he had stopped loving what he was doing and wanted more. He wanted to be more, be someone else, be someone…better. 

So when Captain Tréville had offered him a place with the Musketeers, Porthos had a difficult time not tripping all over himself as he accepted. He saw it as a chance to start over, a chance to be the best version of himself that he could be. 

His new Captain had given him a few days to put his affairs in order before having to report for his first day as a recruit. He’d started making plans and immediately realized that he was about to have two very difficult conversations with the two people he was closest to in the world. Porthos didn’t think they were going to be very accepting of his decision to leave the Court of Miracles in order to become a soldier. 

After talking with Charon, who had basically turned his back on him, and Flea, who had refused to come with him, Porthos still considered his first instinct to leave the Court entirely and not come back to be the right one. He needed to find a place to live that he could afford until he earned his commission. It was a good thing that he had managed to save some money from the jobs he had pulled and that he was a deft hand at cheating at cards, otherwise he didn’t think he would be able to get by until he was commissioned. 

He may be a good hand-to-hand fighter, but he knew he was lacking in many of the other skills required to be a Musketeer, especially his inability to ride a horse. His mother had insisted on teaching him how to read and he’d had the basics down just before she had died. To honor her memory, he made sure her teachings had not gone to waste and kept up with practicing reading whenever he got the chance, but he had never had the opportunity to learn how to write. 

Porthos had tried to tell the Captain that he did not have certain skills important to being a Musketeer, but the older man had not seemed to care. Tréville countered that any skill could be learned and that he would be happy to help tutor him in learning how to write. It was as if the Captain really believed that Porthos was meant to be a Musketeer. And perhaps he was. 

As he stepped through the garrison’s gate for the first time, Porthos felt certain that this was his best shot to start over and have a life outside the Court, one his mother would be proud of. 

Growing up in the Court of Miracles, it never occurred to him to judge anyone due to the color of their skin. In the Court, such a thing as skin color did not matter when one’s day-to-day survival was not assured. Everyone was simply more concerned with their own survival rather than caring about what anyone looked like. 

It didn’t take long for him to figure out that the color of one’s skin _did_ matter outside the Court; it was something he had always known, but the notion had never seemed to matter – until now. 

By far, he had the darkest skin of anyone at the garrison. More than once he had heard a mumbled comment or had seen that a fellow recruit avoided him. They were not outright abusive or nasty, but many of the men seemed to have judged him unworthy to be amongst them for that reason alone, though his lack of unrefined manners was another strike against him. He had let the comments wash over him and had worked hard to learn what he needed to know in order to gain his commission. 

Despite their comments and sometimes rude behavior, the other Musketeers were still willing to train him, perhaps knowing Tréville wouldn’t tolerate any dissension in the ranks. However, no effort was made to get to know him, and he was mostly left to his own devices. 

In the evenings, he would go home to his too small room, in which a bed and small chest for his belongings barely fit into it. He went out to drink on occasion, but without someone to watch his back, he rarely played more than a few hands of cards at a time. He usually stayed in the game just enough to earn enough to pay his rent plus a little extra for necessities. He would leave before anyone could catch on to the fact that he had been cheating, not wanting to lose his place amongst the Musketeers before he was truly given a chance. 

A couple of weeks of this new, solitary existence went by and he had begun wondering if it had been a mistake to cut ties with the Court and join the Musketeers. Only his mother’s disappointment in him if he were to quit kept him returning to the garrison day after day. 

One day, Porthos was working on his marksmanship when several Musketeers entered through the gate, riding at a leisurely pace. Beyond a quick look to get to know their faces, Porthos didn’t bother paying much attention to them, figuring the newcomers would be like all the rest in how they would treat him. 

Having memorized the newcomers’ faces, he turned back towards the targets he had been using. The Musketeer assigned to teach him was barely bothering to take an active role in his assigned duty. The older man, named Fosse, was hardly paying attention to what Porthos was doing, but he kept at it anyway. Porthos reckoned he would eventually figure out the secrets to shooting a pistol accurately on his own. 

Porthos was so focused on his task that he did not notice when one of the newly-returned Musketeers sauntered over to watch him practice. Porthos aimed carefully and shot at the target, cursing under his breath when the shot went wild, barely hitting the outer-most ring of the bullseye. He had no idea what he’d done wrong and Fosse has been far from helpful in his instructions; all he could do was to try again. 

From behind, he heard someone say that his shot was simply horrible, bad enough to make the stable boy cry. The comment, though absolutely true, made him angry because he did not need yet another one of his fellows mocking him. 

Porthos primed his pistol, took his stance and fired with nearly the same result as before. This time, instead of being upfront with his insults, the newcomer, whom Porthos recognized as one of the Musketeers who had just returned from a mission, went over to Fosse. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but expected them to break out into laughter at any moment. Instead, his instructor threw up his hands in frustration and started to walk away without a word of explanation other than some indistinct mumbling, which he figured was likely derogatory in nature. 

Now alone with the newcomer, Porthos shrugged to himself and began to walk towards the armory, knowing his lesson in firearms was finished for the day and not really in the mood to keep going on his own. The newcomer stopped him and offered to show him what he was doing wrong. 

The look on Porthos’s face must have adequately conveyed his skepticism of the offer as well as the stranger’s ability and willingness to teach, because his would-be teacher took his pistol out and fired towards the targets without looking. Porthos was amazed to see that the man got a perfect bullseye. He looked back towards the stranger and was confronted with a wide, disarming grin. 

“My name is Aramis. What’s yours?” 

ooooooo 

Firearms lessons began that afternoon, and Porthos found Aramis to be an excellent teacher. They go back to the basics and he learned how to properly clean and load a pistol. 

Porthos had wanted to continue on and learn how to shoot better, but Aramis claimed fatigue and promised that their lessons would resume the next day. He was disappointed to have to stop as Aramis was the first person, aside from Captain Tréville, to treat him just like any other recruit, but even he could see the other man was exhausted from his earlier travels. 

True to the man’s word, Aramis sought him out at the garrison the next day and they resumed firearms lessons. Though Aramis treated him like any other recruit, the man also treated him as a person and was welcoming and friendly. As an instructor, the man was patient and it was obvious that Aramis wanted him to become a good shot with both a pistol and a musket. 

It only took a couple of days for Porthos to learn of Aramis’s notorious reputation with women, and though inconstant in his attentions, the man seemed to practically worship the female form. He also discovered Aramis’s love of God and the Church, and Porthos has never really been around anyone so religious and yet so irreverent at the same time. The man was full of contradictions, and yet was also consistent and predictable in his behaviors. Porthos wondered if this might be someone he could consider a friend. 

As they got to know each other better, Aramis invited him out to drink with some other Musketeers, who grudgingly accepted his presence. When he heard a derogatory comment from one of the others as he’d left the table to get some more wine, Porthos then heard Aramis angrily defend him. A smile stole over his face as he asked the tavern keeper for a bottle of wine. That night was the first time that he had truly felt that he would be able to make it outside the Court of Miracles. 

Porthos was at a tavern one night and was playing cards with some Red Guards when one of them had suddenly accused him of cheating. He wasn’t cheating, not exactly, and they hadn’t caught him red-handed, but Porthos believed that they didn’t really have a reason other than his skin color, if the comments about him being a slave were any indication. A fight broke out and after hitting one of the Guards, he caught sight of some Musketeers sitting in the far corner, but none of them had looked like they were going to come to his aid. He was outnumbered, and though he was confident that he would get some of them, there were too many of them for him to handle on his own. 

He landed a powerful right cross on his accuser, who immediately went down like a felled tree. Then, from behind him, he heard what sounded like glass breaking and turned around with fists raised to see Aramis with the neck of a broken wine bottle in his hand. 

Aramis grinned, tossed the bottle neck to the side, and said, “Mind if I join in?” 

ooooooo 

After that, Porthos decided that he could trust Aramis and considered the man a friend – his first outside of the Court of Miracles. They became nearly inseparable and Aramis was assigned to be his mentor while he trained to become a Musketeer. Their friendship was progressing and they had their differences, but that was what made them a good team. 

One day, Aramis came to him with news that he and 21 others were being sent on a training mission to Savoy. The bad news was that Porthos would not be allowed to go due to the fact that he had yet to learn how to properly ride a horse. He and several other city-bred recruits were being held back in order to learn horsemanship while Aramis was away with the others. 

Porthos was disappointed and he understood the Captain’s reasoning, but he would miss his best friend. The only thing that made the idea of their separation somewhat bearable was the changing attitudes of the other Musketeers. Ever since that tavern fight had cemented his and Aramis’ friendship, it seemed that the other Musketeers had begun to accept him despite his skin color and obvious lack of a proper upbringing. It had been a most welcome change from his first few days at the garrison. 

Aramis was atop his horse, waiting for the group to begin making their way out of the garrison, when Porthos went over to shake his friend’s hand and wish him safe travels. 

Aramis smiled widely and said, “Porthos, my friend, I will see you when I get back.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Nineteen: It’s About Time


	19. It's About Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Missing scenes/sequel to Obvious Care (Chapter Eight). While this is a missing scene for Obvious Care, it’s not necessary to read that story to understand this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was stubborn, but it ended up being one of the longest ones. Enjoy!

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person. They came to see that family need not be defined merely as…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Nineteen: It’s About Time**

_“We have known each other long enough that I can be honest and tell you that in relationships you are often inept and it is only through the determination and perceptiveness of those around you that you have any friends at all.”_

_~~~~~~~ Aramis, Chapter19 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

When Aramis returns from his mission to deliver some letters from the King, it has been several days since he had treated Athos’s concussion. Entering the garrison’s mess, he sees that the man in question is looking much better than the last time Aramis had seen him, and he’s pleased that at first glance there seemed to be no lasting effects from the injury Athos had sustained. 

As per usual, Athos was sitting by himself, though this time he was sitting in the back corner of the room nursing a mug of ale and looking as if he had been roughed up by Life. Aramis couldn’t help but wonder what could make a man that way, then stopped mid-step as a flashback to Savoy briefly stole his breath. When he could breathe again, he decided that it must have been tragedy that had beaten this man down, just as it had briefly done so to him. 

Only in his case, he’d had his fledgling friendship with Porthos and the rest of the Musketeers to help him out of his self-made pit of despair, disdain, and devastation. Who did Athos have? 

As far as he could tell, Athos had no one and nothing except his self-imposed seclusion and his seemingly ever-present supply of wine. Perhaps he could try extending the hand of friendship to Athos just as he had done to Porthos when it had looked as if the man were being shunned by the rest of the Musketeers. That impromptu decision to help Porthos with his formally-abysmal shooting skills had ended up helping to save his own soul. 

After Savoy, he had craved isolation, feeling guilty that he was alive when 20 of his fellow Musketeers were now buried in the cold, unyielding ground. Porthos’s determination to be there for him had sparked a friendship he was sure would last a lifetime; he had never had a friend who so easily understood and accepted him. 

Inadvertent as the action was Athos, by way of needing treatment for his concussion, had helped bring him out of his most recent fit of melancholia; he felt he owed it to the man to return the favor. 

Aramis wove his way around the mess hall tables and made his way to Athos’s lonely corner. He stood behind the table’s empty chair, waiting for Athos to acknowledge him. When the man did not, Aramis went ahead and sat down anyway. When there was still no acknowledgment of his presence, Aramis risked touching Athos’s forearm. Athos startled and began reaching for his sword before recognition stole over his face and his body relaxed minutely though not completely. 

“Why are you here?” he asked in a tone that was flat and unwelcoming. 

Aramis smiled and replied, “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Athos, having obviously recognized the words were in reference to his recent injury, raised a solitary eyebrow towards him with the eyes below the highly-arched brow darkening slightly in what was likely annoyance, before his face smoothed into its usually stoic mask. Aramis’s grin faltered at the change in his companion, making him choose a different tact. 

From the way the man was squinting and the faint lines of pain surrounding the eyes it was obvious to him that Athos was suffering from a headache – a not uncommon problem post-concussion. It was possible the headache was the result of a hangover, but Aramis saw no other signs of one. 

“I came over to see how you were recovering,” Aramis said, only expressing part of the reason he’d sought Athos out. 

Athos just keeps looking at him, saying nothing, and Aramis feels compelled to continue. 

“From your injury,” he says, pointing towards Athos’s head. “It’s been a few days, and I thought I’d check to see how you’re doing.” 

Something in Athos’s aloof façade breaks slightly, but the other man quickly regains his composure. 

“I am fine,” Athos said. He paused, then added, “Thank you for your concern.” 

Athos then stands, his chair loudly scraping the wooden floor, and he walks away without another word. 

ooooooo 

Several days later, Aramis saw Athos sparring against one of the younger recruits, looking as if the exercise was hardly worth his time and attention. Watching them, Aramis was in awe of Athos’s ability to adjust his skill level to match his opponent. It was a strategy intended to enlighten his opponents of their flaws in technique, humbling them to the point where they were finally willing to learn something. 

Athos almost never outright humiliated his opponent, but simply allowed them to fall into traps of their own making. It was also an effective way to weed out those recruits who would not likely make it far enough to be commissioned. More importantly, it showed the arrogant ones the folly of believing the hype about their own skills. 

Athos was moments away from defeating yet another rude, second son of nobility who thought he was God’s gift when Porthos sat down on the bench beside him. 

“What do you think?” Aramis asked. 

“I think Marcellin is about ten seconds away from feeling Athos’s blade at his neck,” Porthos replied. 

“Not him. Athos,” said Aramis. 

A mischievous grin broke out on Porthos’s face, letting Aramis know the large man was messing with him. Aramis rolled his eyes before glaring at his friend to indicate he was waiting for a serious answer. 

Porthos held his hands up in surrender and returned to watch the sparring session, a thoughtful look on the man’s face. 

As predicted, only a few seconds later, Marcellin was on the ground with Athos’s blade at the young man’s neck. 

His friend then looked at him and said, “He knew my name – and yours – even though it’s never looked like ‘e was paying attention to or cared one whit about what was going around him. Yet, I’d wager ‘e knows _everything_ that’s goin’ on.”—Porthos wiped a hand down his face and sighed—“You think he needs a friend, don’t you?” 

“No, my dear Porthos, I think he needs _two_ friends,” Aramis replied with a wide grin on his face. 

“And the fact that the man’s every action practically screams ‘stay away’ is really just a clever ploy to make friends?” 

“Exactly!” he said excitedly as he stood up. 

“Fine. But have you considered what you’re going to do when he ‘politely’ tells us to go to Hell?” 

“He won’t Porthos. I think he’s just been waiting for the right people to come along.” 

“Since when have we ever been ‘the right people’?” Porthos asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Aramis grinned again and replied, “Since we became friends, of course. Two against one. Athos won’t stand a chance.” 

Porthos laughed out loud and clapped a hand to his shoulder, steering them towards the mess. 

Aramis truly believed that he hadn’t ever really had a friend as great and dear as Porthos in his life. It was as if they were the missing piece in each other’s puzzle. Despite their differences in temperament and upbringing, they fit together in how they fought and in how they lived. Up until he had offered to show Porthos how to properly shoot a pistol, he had not been aware that he was lacking something as significant as the other man’s friendship in his life. 

Now he was beginning to wonder if their puzzles weren’t as complete as he’d once thought. What if there was still a piece missing? 

When he had seen Porthos for the first time, he knew he was meant to be friends with the man. That same feeling had come over him when he had treated Athos’s concussion. With Porthos on his side, he had feeling that their duo would eventually become a trio. 

ooooooo 

Before going their separate ways that night, Aramis and Porthos spend several hours drinking at a tavern and strategizing about how to befriend Athos. As the hours go by, they come up with increasingly outlandish ideas, sometimes laughing at them so hard that tears were running down their faces. 

It wasn’t until the next morning, when he woke up in the arms of his latest paramour that Aramis felt guilty about his attitude towards the prospect of becoming Athos’s friend. On his way to the garrison, he stopped at a small church to beg God for forgiveness for treating the whole situation as a joke and not as a way for helping someone he had a feeling had just as much hidden baggage as he and Porthos. 

He was certain that he was doing the right thing in befriending Athos, sensing the man needed people in his life that cared about him beyond that of a fellow brother-in-arms. He just had to get the somber man to see that friends helped to make life worth living even when everything else came crashing down around your shoulders. From the set of Athos’s shoulders, the man could definitely use some friends. 

And what better friends could the man want than him and Porthos? 

ooooooo 

Porthos met him at the garrison’s gate a day later in order to finally put their mission into effect. Hopefully, by the end, they would have a new friend and get Athos to see that going through life alone was not the way to live. 

For their first attempt, they had decided to go with something easy to implement: sitting at the same table that Athos chose to occupy. Since Athos had joined their ranks, they’d noticed that only those brave – or perhaps foolhardy – enough attempted to sit with the man. Most of them ended up moving to another seat or table fairly quickly. The rest only stayed long enough to basically inhale their meals to the point of almost choking on them before practically scurrying away, unable to handle the perfectly, but silently, communicated desire for people to stay away from him. Whether it was something in his expression or something in his bearing, Aramis never exactly knew, but eventually it was only the newest of recruits who attempted to get to know Athos. 

Aramis realized that neither he nor Porthos had ever before attempted to sit with Athos, perhaps recognizing and respecting the man’s desire for what little quiet and privacy a soldier could get in a garrison full of men. Sometimes, Aramis wondered if Athos hated the world and other times he wondered if the hate weren’t really directed towards Athos himself. Was that why the man drank so much? 

Either way, Athos didn’t seem to care about anything much besides duty and where his next bottle of wine was coming from. 

He and Porthos cautiously approached Athos as one might approach a wild or wounded animal, remaining in his field of vision at all times and wary of unprovoked attacks. The other Musketeers in the mess looked at them as if they were insane for purposely approaching Athos. He had been on the receiving end of several remarks for daring to inquire about the man’s health a short while ago. 

Thankfully, the man was sitting at a table that could seat four, and they chose to sit in the two chairs directly across from Athos. As they began to eat, Aramis immediately began to feel Athos’s desire for the two of them to leave the table directed towards them. Throughout their meal, Athos never looked directly at them, never spoke to them, and genuinely seemed to take no notice of their presence. Yet, that “go away” feeling persisted; it was as if there was a barrier around Athos that no one was meant to break through. 

To distract himself and likely Porthos from that “go away” vibe, Aramis began to talk about recent missions the Musketeers had been sent on and their outcomes. More than once, Aramis would ask a question in an attempt to get Athos to interject an opinion or comment, but to no avail. It was as if Athos was tolerating their presence, knowing he had no right to outright tell them to move elsewhere. 

Eventually, the three had finished their meals and, though Aramis attempted several other topics of conversation, Athos never once said anything. Athos picked up his dishes and left the table without acknowledging either of them. 

Aramis watched Athos leave the mess and then looked at Porthos who said, “That went well.” 

He shrugged and smiled, “It did. You saw that he left first.” 

Porthos grinned, “Probably the first to outlast him. Could’ve taken bets and made a killing.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis said, looking and sounding scandalized before laughing and adding, “Maybe, but that’s not the best foundation for a friendship.” 

“You started out by insulting me.” 

“No, I told you the truth, and then I rectified my admittedly tactless remark by helping you with your shooting.” 

“Maybe we should ask Athos to spar with us tomorrow.” 

“Excellent idea, my friend,” Aramis said as they got up from the table. “It’s difficult to ignore someone you’re sparring against.” 

ooooooo 

The next morning, Aramis hoped to come across Athos before muster, but the man, obviously hungover, joined the ranks with only a minute to spare. Captain Tréville, having no missions for anyone, doled out chores to some of the men, but the majority was ordered to train. This gave him and Porthos a perfect opportunity to interact with Athos. 

Athos was gracious enough to accept both their offers to train at swordplay with them. Having never had the pleasure to spar against Athos, Aramis soon found out that the man’s reputation for mastery over the blade had not been exaggerated. It was a good match, and though he felt that he was defeated perhaps too quickly, Aramis did not feel at all demeaned. He actually hoped to get another chance to spar with Athos in hopes of improving his own skill with a blade. Porthos didn’t last as long as him, but it was obvious that he greatly enjoyed his match as well. 

However, when he caught sight of Athos, Aramis knew exactly why the fights were over as quickly as they had been: Athos was most definitely still suffering from his hangover. The matches had more than likely been quick and precise so that the ill-looking man could be finished as soon as possible. Aramis looked at Porthos and tilted his head towards Athos, who nodded, acknowledging that he’d seen the same thing. 

Athos went to stand in the shade, Porthos following him even as he veered off to get them all something to drink. When he tried handing Athos a cup, the other man stared at it as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Athos then looked at him then Porthos with an unreadable expression before reaching for the cup and nodding once to show his thanks, the slight nod likely in deference to the remnants of the hangover. 

Before he could speak with Athos and attempt to get to know him better, one of the younger recruits challenged the man to a match. Athos quickly agreed but not before Aramis thought he saw a look of frustration flash across his face before disappearing completely. He got the impression that Athos was often challenged by the other Musketeers who wished to prove themselves against a master and best them if they could. 

Both he and Porthos were called away to help train the newer recruits in their respective skill sets, having to leave before seeing the outcome of the match. Aramis smirked at Porthos’s look of disappointment at not being able to stay to the end. 

Just as they were to part ways, Aramis said, “Porthos, do you really doubt the outcome?” 

“Nah,”—Porthos laughed—“I just like seeing the baby Musketeers being put in their place.” 

ooooooo 

That evening, Athos is sitting at a table that only has one extra seat available. He and Porthos look at each other, and Aramis makes a gesture for the larger man to go ahead and take the seat. 

Aramis sits with some of the other Musketeers at a table meant for at least six people, choosing a seat that has clear sightlines to Porthos and Athos. He is peppered with questions about Athos and about what he and Porthos are trying to do, but Aramis manages to ignore most of them as he observes their interactions – or mostly, a lack thereof. 

Porthos attempts to engage Athos in conversation, and from what he can tell, some words are exchanged, which gives him some hope for the future. However, given Porthos’s body language, the conversation was largely unsatisfactory. 

After their meal, Porthos informs him that Athos has agreed to help them with their weaknesses in sword fighting technique. At first, Aramis doesn’t know what to think as he considered himself to be more than adequate with a blade, but then he realizes it would be another way to get to know their solemn comrade. 

“Well, that’s something,” Aramis finally says. 

Porthos snorts and places his hands on his hips. “It’s an agreement, an obligation to him.” 

“Still…” 

“Yeah, yeah.”—Porthos lets out a sigh of frustration—“Are you sure about this?” 

Aramis grins and replies, “Aren’t you?” 

Porthos glares at him and walks away. Aramis’s grin widens as he jogs to catch up to his friend. 

ooooooo 

In the days following, they continue sitting with Athos even when the man begins to sit outside as the weather continues to warm. In fact, the table next to the stairs leading to the captain’s office starts to feel like it’s _their_ table. 

At this point, Athos will answer direct questions – at least he will most of the time. Much of the rest of the time, Athos seems to be so turned inward that a bomb could explode and the man would not even notice. 

Such dark moods Aramis could somewhat understand as he’s been prone to them since Savoy, especially in the immediate days following his return to Paris. Back then he had Porthos and now Athos has them. The other man just doesn’t know it yet. 

Every time they attempt to get to know Athos better, Aramis has begun to notice that the man doesn’t seem to understand why they are even talking to him. Did Athos really not get it? Did he not grasp how one person attempted to be another’s friend? To actually _be_ a friend? Aramis was starting to wonder if Athos wasn’t oblivious to what he and Porthos were trying to do. 

Granted, Athos may be stoic, prone to melancholy, and a drunkard, but Aramis had seen flashes of real intelligence and wit. He was a patient teacher if the student wanted to learn, and he never sought to humiliate his opponents. 

If only the man would be less aloof, then perhaps things would be easier. 

ooooooo 

They persevere and continue to try to get on better terms with Athos, but nothing they do seems to make inroads. As the days go by, nothing seems to help deepen their acquaintance with the almost chronically hungover man. Athos appeared to be as unaffected as ever, as uncaring of being alone as he was of being in a crowd at one of King Louis’ fetes. 

Frustrated with the lack of progress, Porthos suggested – only half-jokingly, he later found out – that they should actually try some of their more outlandish ideas. Aramis somehow didn’t think Athos would appreciate having his horse “misplaced.” 

One night, they’d even rescued an extremely drunk Athos from being robbed and likely murdered outside of a tavern, bringing the man home. While they had watched over him the rest of the night, Athos had awakened once when he’d needed the chamber pot. As he’d passed them, Athos had acknowledged each of them by name. When he’d finished, the other man had gone back to sleep, a heavy groan issuing from his lips as his body basically collapsed back onto his mattress. 

Unfortunately, the next day, the hungover Musketeer did not recall anything that had happened the previous night. Granted, they’d had to leave Athos to wake up alone in order to be at the palace on time for duty, but Aramis still thought the occasion memorable enough to remember _something_ once the hangover retreated. Alas, it was not meant to be. 

ooooooo 

When his birthday came along, Aramis thought to invite a group of Musketeers to celebrate with him at the Wren that night. He made sure Athos was in the room at the time and had made it explicit that every one of his brother Musketeers was invited. 

All those who had been in hearing of the invitation had shown up – everyone _except_ Athos. 

Of the two of them, Porthos had been able to get away from the group and he had found Athos sitting almost exactly where they’d left him. However, Athos had been drinking straight from a bottle of wine that he must have procured from somewhere else. When they’d spoken about it later that night, neither he nor Porthos could figure out why Athos had not come with everyone to the tavern. 

It was possible that Athos had not joined the group because he did not care for Aramis, but neither of them thought that the most likely option. If Athos had truly objected to or despised their company, then surely he would’ve done or said _something_ before now, wouldn’t he? 

Aramis was then reminded of something he’d considered only a week or so prior. He had wondered if Athos was oblivious to their overtures of friendship, and now he was almost certain that was the case. 

“In the history of making and keeping friendships, he must be the most inept person to ever walk the earth,” Aramis said to Porthos the next day. 

At the non sequitur, his friend looked at him as if had two heads before understanding dawned a moment later. Porthos put his hand to his forehand and shook his head before letting out a frustrated sigh. 

“He really doesn’t get it, does he?” 

“No, he does not,” Aramis said, a sad smile gracing his face. “But he will – someday.” 

ooooooo 

A little over a week later, Aramis is getting ready to leave for a late night rendezvous when there is a knock on his door. Thinking Porthos would be the only one to come by at such an hour, Aramis has a quip about the dangers of gambling on the tip of his tongue as he answers the door. However, the person on the other side of the door is not Porthos but Athos, blood trailing down the left side of his face. 

As he carefully sews up Athos’s wound, the other man eventually opens up a little, telling Aramis about the bar fight that led to his injury. It galls him that Athos had no back up from his brother Musketeers, and he’d remarked that if he or Porthos been there, things would have turned out much differently. Though Athos acknowledges that fact, Aramis doubted that the other man believed what had been said. Feeling at crossroads, Aramis then said something that, at the time, he had no idea would be that one thing that would finally get through to Athos. 

“Well, how about you invite us to that tavern as a thank you for patching you up, and we’ll prove it to you.” 

Several days later, Athos finally, _finally_ reciprocates their overtures of friendship and invites Aramis and Porthos to accompany him to the tavern. They immediately agree and, having asked which tavern they were to go to, Aramis immediately recognizes it as the one where Athos had so recently received his injuries. Aramis has a huge grin on his face as Athos stands and starts heading towards the garrison’s main gate. 

He and Porthos get up to follow Athos, sharing a look of triumph between them. 

“It’s about damn time,” Porthos mutters under his breath. 

Aramis smiles and replies, “Amen, Brother.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Twenty: Anniversaries


	20. Anniversaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: After Stiches (Chapter Six). References to Land of the Living (Chapter Eleven) (e.g. Noury). D’Artagnan is approximately nine or ten years old. 
> 
> .  
> See *Trigger Warning* at end of chapter.  
> .

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Twenty: Anniversaries**

_The two men looked at Athos in consternation, unsure of how to proceed next as d'Artagnan stepped hesitantly forward, "Maybe I can try?"_  
_~~~~~~~ d’Artagnan, Chapter 20 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Charles had been lying awake for hours in bed, dreading the breaking of dawn when the sun’s first rays of light entered his bedroom. He groaned and adjusted his bedclothes to cover his head, not wanting the day to start quite yet. Try as he might, he had been unable to get much sleep the night before because all he could think of was that the next day marked the one-year anniversary of his mother’s death. 

No matter how hard he had taken his mother’s death, it seemed his father had barely been able to survive the loss of his beloved wife. For a time, his father had been so very lost, immobilized by his grief and barely remembering how to live. If it had not been for his clumsy attempts to make his father breakfast, during which he had burned the palms of hands, Charles might never have brought his parent back to the land of the living. 

It had taken time, but his father had found a way to carry on and be the parent his son needed. And now, one year later, Charles was worried how his father would handle the anniversary. Would he lose his father to grief all over again? 

Despite his misgivings, the day seemed to be like any other, except for the grief which shrouded his heart. He still missed his mother so very much, but found that his chores and lessons filled the day enough so that he did not dwell on his loss overmuch. 

His father managed to stay in the present and not let his grief take over as it had done just after his mother had gone to Heaven. After their meal that evening, which neither of them ate with much gusto, his father declared that he was heading into town and would be back in a few hours. As Charles watched his father ride away towards town, his gut twisted, but he discounted the feeling as his meal not having properly settled. 

Several hours later, Charles wakes up in front of the fireplace, the embers still glowing but barely putting out any warmth or light. He stokes the fire, adding a log to it before using a small stick from the new flames to light a candle. He is hoping to see that his father has come back home and had simply not seen him as he’d passed by to the bedroom, but Charles has a feeling that he is all alone in the house. 

As he’d feared, the room is empty and Charles is very aware of the fact that something bad could’ve happened to his father. Panic rising and dreading the worst, Charles has no idea at first what to do. Forcing himself to calm down and not dwell on the notion that he might now be an orphan, he considers heading towards Noury’s home in hopes that the headman might gather men to help look for his father. 

He gathers his coat and lights a lantern, but as soon as he steps outside, a thought occurs to him. Praying he is right, Charles heads towards the ancient pine tree that his father had once carved his and his wife’s initials into as a symbol of their love. 

As he approaches the tree, he can hear some odd noises coming from nearby and thinks it might be his father’s voice. Relief washes over him, but only for the minute it takes him to make it to his father’s side. That’s when the smell hits him. 

His father was drunk. 

For his father to have been gone so long, the man had apparently been impaired beyond the ability to walk home for a time, and he would later learn, beyond the ability to remember what had happened to him. 

Charles could not ever remember his father drinking to excess before this night. Perhaps drinking himself into oblivion was the only way the man could cope with the anniversary. He just wished his father had done it closer to home so that he would not have worried so much about him. He was already plenty worried about how to handle a parent who was drunk when he was so small in comparison to his father. 

Thankfully, it only takes a few calm words – words he had no idea where they came from – to get the quietly mumbling man to pick himself up off the ground and start shuffling towards home. Half-way there, his father’s ability to walk deteriorates and he had to lend a shoulder to help steady the man and make it the final distance to their front door. By some miracle, they made it home and into his father’s bedroom intact. 

When Charles suggests to his father that he undress for sleep, the man suddenly becomes an uncoordinated mass of limbs all attempting to do something different yet still not managing to do anything remotely useful. Charles attempts to help, but one flailing arm manages to backhand the side of his face, hitting his right eye. Right away, he can feel a bruise starting to rise, but he ignores it in favor of helping his father get more comfortable. Somehow he manages to put his father to bed without any further problems or accidents, placing the chamber pot nearby just in case it’s needed. 

As he lay in bed with a cold, damp cloth over his eye, Charles struggles to come to terms with the version of his father he had seen that night. Having never seen his father so impaired by alcohol before, he wonders if the grief from the day had become too much for him. Had his father needed the alcohol to dull his pain or had he needed it to forget it entirely? 

Charles doesn’t see his father up and around until mid-morning the next day. His father, as had everyone else, immediately noticed his bruised eye. He told his father, just like he had told everyone else that he had been clumsy and had bumped into the door of his bedroom trying to navigate the house without candlelight. If it wasn’t for the fact that this had actually happened to him more than once, though he had never before bruised his face, no one would have believed him. The one person who he hoped would believe him – his father – stared at him for a minute, looking as if he were trying to remember something before he also accepted the story. 

ooooooo 

The following year, the second anniversary of his mother’s death, starts out much like the first. Charles spends the day missing his mother so much it practically hurts to breathe, and his father’s grief is evident but not enough to prevent him from doing his work for the day. In the back of his mind, Charles worries that the night will end as last year’s anniversary ended, with his father drunk and unable to get home by himself. 

All throughout the evening meal, Charles cast furtive looks towards his father trying to figure out if the man would be staying home that night. The meal is quiet, the only sounds are those associated with eating. When Charles breaks the near silence by beginning to clean up the dishes, his father finally speaks up, saying that he is going to the tavern for a few hours. 

Charles considers speaking up, but he knows it will do no good. He is a child and has to abide by his father’s wishes, not the other way around. 

The next hours continue much like they did the year before, and Charles finds himself back at the ancient pine tree helping his drunken father back home. 

Prepared for his father’s ungainly movements this time, Charles manages to be quick enough to dodge them, though he is forced to listen to mumbled words of grief that make his heart ache for both his mother _and_ his father. However, when he starts to help take the man’s boots off, his father has decided that it is time for him to take them off by himself. In trying to wrest control of one of his legs from his son, Charles is accidentally kicked in the mouth before he could properly back away. It is a glancing blow but enough to cause a split lip that bleeds only a little. He gets his father into bed and ends the anniversary night as he did the year before – with a cold, damp cloth on his face and unanswered questions about why his father had to get drunk. 

The next morning, Charles does his chores and manages to keep everyone from seeing his split lip. He doesn’t want anyone to think poorly of his father for being unable to deal with his grief without drinking so heavily. Though he still doesn’t understand the drinking, he loves his father and would do anything to protect him, including protecting the man from his demons. 

However, he cannot avoid his father forever, and the man finds him in the barn attending to his horse, Buttercup. His father asks him how he came to be hurt and Charles blames his clumsiness once again, claiming to have tripped, falling face-first onto the ground. At first, his father seems to accept his lie, but then his eyes widen slightly before he goes a little pale. 

His father turns away, but stops in his tracks after only a step or two. 

“Charles?” he said, not turning around to face him. 

“Yes, Father,” he replies as calmly as he is able even though his heart is hammering in his chest. 

Charles wonders if he is about to be lectured about for lying to his father and punished for committing such a sin, as it was obvious to him that the man has remembered accidentally hurting him the night before. Instead, his father surprises him. 

His father sighs heavily, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he said and walks away before Charles can gather his scattered wits and reply. 

ooooooo 

On the third anniversary of his mother’s death, his father does not go to the tavern. Instead, he stays home and limits himself to two extra glasses of wine before falling asleep in front of the fire. 

That night, Charles lets his father continue sleeping in his favorite chair and heads to bed, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this did not come across as it being okay for people to drown their grief in alcohol or condoning the consequences of doing so.
> 
> Next time: Chapter Twenty-one: That Special Something …..(FYI: It will likely be posted a few hours later than usual.)  
> .  
> .  
> .
> 
> *Trigger Warning*: Accidentally (and with no malice intended), a drunken adult lands a glancing blow on a child on two separate occasions.


	21. That Special Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Post It’s About Time (Chapter Nineteen).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost feel like I should be apologizing to William Goldman for this chapter; you’ll see why if you keep reading. I will say that I used some dialogue and situations from his wonderful book/screenplay – guess which one! – but have changed the details, meanings, and intent of several famous lines. You may also recognize some dialogue from Friends and Enemies (1.01), written by Adrian Hodges.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Twenty-one: That Special Something**

_“It had been a good feeling and one that Athos had not experienced for many years, not since his beloved brother had been so cruelly taken from him and he'd had no one left to teach. There had been other recruits, of course, but none of them had that special something that d'Artagnan did – passion, courage, dedication, loyalty.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter 21 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Athos entered the office only after he was given permission. Captain Tréville was writing…something; he couldn’t quite tell what the content was, but from other clues he was able to discern that it was a reply to a missive from the King. 

He stood ramrod straight in front of his captain’s desk, hand almost too-tightly gripping his sword’s hilt and not daring to speak while he was still angry and fed up, knowing it wouldn’t help the situation at all. 

Suddenly, Tréville cursed and forcefully put his quill pen back into its simply yet beautifully-designed holder. The captain set aside the paper, placing it atop a pile of others that were littered with large ink blots marring the page. Athos knew that Tréville would have the paper cut so that the clean pieces would become notepaper and the soiled pieces would become kindling, not wasting a single scrap of the expensive material. 

The Captain sighed in frustration and retrieved a clean sheet of paper. Instead of taking up his quill once more, Tréville looked up at him. 

“Well, what was it this time?” 

ooooooo 

When he’d reported in from his latest mission, Tréville had given Athos the task of assessing Cavil, who was the second son of some noble from the southern part of the country. The young man’s father was equipped with only a minor title and a mere fraction of the land that Athos’s family had ever maintained. 

The Captain revealed to him how, the minute the new Musketeer had walked into the garrison, Cavil had acted as if owned the place. It was as if the younger man didn’t realize that there were many second and third sons who also served in the regiment. The only real difference between Cavil and some of the others was that the man’s father had been able to afford to purchase the commission for his son, while the rest had had to work hard for theirs. 

By this time, Athos was beginning to very much despise his unasked-for role in the training of other Musketeers. Very few had the talent to live up to his exacting standards, and even fewer had ever not been a burden to teach. The only person who had never been a burden, and had instead been a joy to teach, was dead and buried for more than four years now. Thomas had never had the same talent as him, and his own sword master had refused to teach Thomas, but Athos had loved passing on his knowledge to his younger brother. 

Athos had been assigned other recruits in the past in order to test their skills with a blade. He was one of the garrison’s weapons masters; therefore it was logical that he should be given this duty. Unfortunately, all too often he would become disappointed with the men he’d been assigned to assess for one reason or another. 

Other than assessing their skills, Athos could do nothing much about those men, like Cavil, who had bought their commissions unless they were willing to learn from him or the other master swordsmen. However, it was often his testimony of their attitude and progress – or lack thereof – that was used to help decide a recruit’s placement and assigned missions. 

Of those recruits who had been handed over to him for more personalized training, a fair number of them had shown some amount of promise in the beginning. That promise too often faded, exposing something lacking in some part of the man’s true character or abilities. Too often their passion would be extinguished, they would find their courage failing, see their dedication waning, and have their loyalties tested beyond what they could endure. None of them had ever lived up to their initial promise or hype. 

He was beginning to lose all hope of ever finding someone who had the skills, that special something which would make passing on his knowledge the least bit enjoyable once again. After having Tréville attempt and fail – sometimes spectacularly – to make him a mentor to several of the more skilled sword fighters, he was at the point where he just might show the next upstart exactly how capable he was with a blade. 

Normally, he had to hold back in order to not injure the men he fought against, making sure to closely match the skill of his opponent but maintaining one or two levels above the other man’s abilities. Athos found that if he let the other man dictate the fight – at least at first – then he would be shown what would otherwise be hidden by his opponent. He never sought to humiliate or demean anyone – at least not on purpose – but he simply allowed them to fall into a trap of their own making. Once the men did that, it was only another moment before he disarmed them. How each man responded after they had lost told him the rest of what he needed to know. 

Most recruits and newly commissioned Musketeers did not last long in a fight against him. In the months since Trévlle had begun ordering him to take on the assessment or mentorship of the newer Musketeers, the time those men had been under his tutelage had steadily decreased. The first had lasted barely a month; now they lasted only a few days at best. 

ooooooo 

By the time Athos had exited Captain Tréville’s office, holding his weapons belt in his right hand, he was wistfully thinking of his bed and a bottle or two of wine, though not necessarily in that order. Directly in his path, there was a young man striding over-confidently towards him, who was wearing his scabbard on his right side, indicating he was left-hand dominant. 

From the younger man’s clothes, it was obvious this rude new Musketeer was from a noble family. Aside from him, there was currently no one else born of a noble family in the garrison who wasn’t a second or third son – or even a fourth son, in one instance. 

Without any introductions on the young Musketeer’s part, the man immediately challenged Athos to a match. Athos had been out on the road all day traveling back to Paris in the hot sun, and this…this pompous stranger – who he assumed was his new assignment, Cavil – expected him to cross swords directly upon the younger man’s say so. It was incredibly bad form and even a second – or was it third? – son should know better. 

“I am sorry, but I have just returned from a mission and am quite fatigued. Perhaps we could spar at another time,” Athos said, hoping the young Musketeer would see reason. 

“Are you such a coward that you would refuse me?” 

This was not a very auspicious start to his new assignment. Athos rubbed a hand over his face, feeling irritation quickly replacing his exhaustion even as he heard several of his brothers-in-arms take umbrage to the accusation of cowardice on his behalf, most notably Porthos. 

Apparently, the young man’s arrogance was of too significant a size to maneuver around for Cavil to catch sight of the reason Athos had been hoping for. 

“I am _not_ refusing; I am postponing our match for another time.” 

Cavil must have noticed that he had an audience, because Athos would swear that the arrogant fool had just puffed out his chest in an attempt to look bigger. He would’ve rolled his eyes at the action if he’d had the energy – or cared. 

“A true Musketeer would not let fatigue defeat them!” Cavil said, nearly shouting his words to the assembled crowd, many of whom were looking towards him as if he were about to lose his nearly-impeccable control. 

His fellow Musketeers would have a very long wait before _that_ would ever happen. 

“As you wish.”—Athos bowed his head slightly in acquiescence—“We can begin now if you like.” 

“No, no,” Cavil says, throwing a hand into the air, a careless gesture at best. “We will wait until you are ready. Five minutes.” 

The younger man, a smug smile on his face and sounding as if he has just granted an enormous favor, walked away towards the practice area. It was obvious to Athos that Cavil did not even recognize just how badly he has handled the situation or how insulting he was being. 

Less than five minutes later, Cavil was insisting that they start, rudely asking if he was ready. 

“Whether I am or not, you have been more than generous.” 

Athos’s sword barely clears its scabbard before Cavil launches his attack. He can tell right away that Cavil is not left-hand dominant and wonders why the young man insisted on fighting as if he were. 

Not many were able to fight with their non-dominant hand, but when he had been young, he had broken his right arm falling off his horse after it had been frightened by a snake. Sainct, his sword master had not allowed him any time off from his studies to heal nor would he allow his pupil’s skills to grow rusty, his teachings to become stagnant. Athos had taken up his sword with his left hand and forced himself to become proficient during those weeks his right arm had needed to properly heal. 

Ever since then, he’d made sure to keep up the skill, mostly in private and as far as he was aware, no one had seen him fight left-handed in more than five years, though the whole garrison was currently getting an eyeful. He wonders why Cavil thought it necessary to try and best him in this way, but Athos knew he was more than worthy to meet the younger man’s challenge even while fighting left-handed. 

Was Cavil hoping to put him off balance by fighting left-handed when that was not the norm for the vast majority of swordsmen? Was the newly-commissioned Musketeer thinking to use what would normally be considered a weakness against him? Was he wrong in his observations and Cavil was actually a master with his left hand? 

He was almost certain this was not the case. This was just another show of arrogance, an attempt by the younger man to make himself feel superior over a person he more than likely considered inferior. It was also an insult. Cavil must think that, if he bests one of the Musketeers’ sword masters with his non-dominant hand, then it would be a greater victory, a way to gain popularity, influence, or respect. 

After his theories of what Cavil was trying to accomplish quickly flashed through his mind, Athos decided that they didn’t matter. Soon enough Cavil would be quite disappointed in the outcome of their match. 

His opponent was a man who obviously had no true passion for the art of the sword, no true loyalty to the group of men he had sworn his allegiance to. In Athos’s mind, had this been a recruit, this _boy_ would already be one foot out the door. 

“Your sword is quite a work of craftsmanship,” he said, breaking his normal silence as he countered another of Cavil’s parries. 

“My father purchased it for me. It was made by a six-fingered man named Montoya.”—The _boy_ surged forward to attack—“Enough talk. Fight me!” 

Athos mentally shrugged and did as the upstart asked, and fought the other man while analyzing every move. 

Cavil was very clearly using Bonetti’s defense, something much better suited to a rocky terrain, which very clearly the practice yard was not. 

If it had been a rocky terrain, then Cavil would naturally expect him to counter with Capo Ferro. However, he had always found that Thibault cancelled out Capo Ferro, which this young man obviously did not seem to know anything about. It was too bad really, since he had studied his Agrippa at Sainct’s insistence, and would’ve enjoyed countering Thibault with it. 

“You are wonderful,” Cavil says, a tiny bit of condescension-laced awe creeping into his voice. 

Athos was certain that the younger man did not mean a single word, and made a counter move, surprising the _boy_ by meeting his challenge in such a fashion. 

“I do believe you are better than me,” Cavil said with a smug grin on his face. 

“If that is true, then why do you look so happy?” 

Cavil shrugged, not seeming to care that his movements were becoming sloppier or that he was losing ground. Athos was having a difficult time keeping his skill level the same in order to not give his true mastery with a blade away, even though he was tempted to end this ridiculous fight as soon as possible. 

For Cavil, this challenge was a means to an end, a way to gain status among his fellow Musketeers. For Athos, all this idiotic posturing was doing was making him more and more annoyed the longer he had to deal with the younger man. 

This _boy_ was not worth his time, not worth mentoring as Tréville had ordered. This _boy_ could not learn nor would he ever be willing to learn anything from him. Athos just hoped to God the _boy_ would at least learn how to follow orders or Cavil would get his fellow Musketeers killed somewhere down the line. 

“I believe that I know something you do not,” Cavil finally replied, beginning to sound winded. 

“Really? Enlighten me,” Athos said, getting the feeling that the tide was about to change. 

Cavil disengaged from the fight, taking a couple of steps backward. 

“ _I_ am not left handed,” he said, tossing his sword up into air and catching it in his right hand, flourishing the blade a couple of times before re-engaging in the fight using McBone. 

Finally, the insolent _boy_ had become a challenge to his ability to fight left handed. For the first time, Athos was actually enjoying himself. Alas, he was not fighting to enjoy the dance of blades, but instead to teach a lesson he hoped Cavil would never forget. 

“You are truly amazing,” Athos said, deciding that flattery was what was expected in such an instance. 

Cavil pushed him back a few steps then mockingly bowed towards him. “I ought to be after so many years of practice.” 

Athos could not have wished for a more perfect segue way to the lesson he wished to give Cavil. 

“Then there is something you should know,” he said as he allowed the _boy_ to drive him back into a corner using Fabris. 

“Well, what is it?” Cavil asked, sounding impatient and very self-assured of his impending victory. 

Athos countered with a move that brought him bursting forth out of the corner the _boy_ thought his opponent had been trapped in. 

“ _I_ ”— Athos switches to fighting with his right hand in the middle of a countermove—“am not left-handed either.” 

Cavil’s eyes open wide as saucers as he suddenly found himself on the defensive after dominating – or so he thought – the fight for so long. 

“Who _are_ you really? Because you sure as hell did not learn those moves at some military academy or out on the streets!” 

“I am no one of consequence,” Athos calmly replied. 

“I must know,” the _boy_ said through clenched teeth. 

As calmly and a blandly as he could, Athos replied, “Get used to disappointment.” 

Cavil growled in frustration, muttered several curse words, including one about Athos’s mother, and recklessly attacked anew. 

More than ready for this farce to be at an end, Athos does something he would not normally do: he set an obvious – to him at least – trap. When Cavil narrowly avoided falling for it, Athos springs the real trap, one Sainct would have been proud of. He quickly disarmed the _boy_ , grabbing hold of the other man’s sword arm, tripping him, and pointing both swords at particularly sensitive areas on the upstart Musketeer’s body. 

“How—?” Cavil asked from his supine position on the ground, sounding nearly breathless and more than a little angry. 

Athos hated to be right about one of assigned recruits. This one would never learn, but he would give it one last shot. 

“You _dare_ ask ‘how’ after your insolence and rudeness in challenging a fellow Musketeer who has just returned from a mission.”—Athos removes the swords, tossing the _boy’s_ down to the ground behind him and out of Cavil’s reach—“You _dare_ to ask ‘how’ after attempting to fight left-handed as though you were a true master.”—He switches his sword back and forth between his left and right hands a couple of times—“You _dare_ ask ‘how’ when I matched you move for move and hand to hand, controlling the fight the _entire_ time even as you thought you were going to be victorious.”—He crouches slightly and lowers his voice even more than it already was—“How do you think, _boy_?” 

Cavil’s eyes narrow in anger as if he could not believe anyone would dare to speak to him thusly. 

And with that reaction, even after everything Athos has done to prove to the _boy_ that he still had much to learn, after everything Athos had just said to try to get through to the idiot, it was obvious that the _boy_ had not learned anything. 

Athos stood and without another word, turned to retrieve his weapons belt, which Aramis had recovered and was holding out to him. He nodded his thanks and made his way through the crowd, parting the men as if he were parting the Red Sea and ignoring their murmurs as he made his way towards Captain Tréville’s office. 

He was beyond done. 

He was done with insolent, arrogant _boys_ who didn’t know any better. 

He was done assessing recruits who didn’t know which end of the sword was the dangerous one. 

He was done being assigned young men for him to mentor until they received their commission. 

He was done with Captain Tréville trying to add a fourth to their team as most of the other Musketeers were grouped, knowing _Athos_ would be the main obstacle preventing that from happening. 

He was well and truly done being disappointed, and despaired of ever finding someone with that special something worth cultivating. 

He did not care if his Captain ordered him to assess another recruit or take on another young Musketeer to mentor, because he would refuse. He would rather take 100 lashes of the whip to his back than follow such an order ever again. 

Reaching the Captain’s office, Athos knocked and waited to be bid to enter. 

ooooooo 

Captain Tréville held his gaze for he knew not how long after he’d finished his account of what had recently happened down in the practice yard. 

“How many does this make?” Tréville asked. 

Athos looked down, refusing to answer and suddenly realizing that Cavil had been assigned to him barely an hour ago. It was a new record, and he recognized that the two of them had been in this situation one too many times in the past. 

The Captain sighed; it was a heavily weighted sound, full of frustration, annoyance, and more than a little understanding. 

“Fine.” 

Athos’s head snapped up at the word, and he couldn’t help but stare at his mentor. 

“Really?” he blurted, not daring to believe the older man would relent. 

The Captain rolled his eyes and replied, “Yes.” 

“Thank you, Sir. I—” 

“You are dismissed,” Tréville said. “Maybe someday, you’ll accept the fact that you, Porthos, and Aramis need a fourth.” 

Athos in no way, shape, or form agreed with his Captain about needing a fourth man to round out their team. He was more than content having only his two best friends by his side, the men he trusted with his life and knew better than himself. However, he felt it would be impolitic to disagree with the Captain at this time. 

“Perhaps.” 

Tréville gave him a look telling him exactly what the older man thought of his attempt to smooth over their perpetual disagreement over numbers. 

As he opened the office door and stepped out onto the balcony, Athos breathed in a dose of fresh air, content to finally be free of ever again having to assess, train, or mentor anymore young recruits. 

Athos was dead set against it, but still couldn’t help wondering if Captain Tréville might one day be right about needing a fourth. As he made his way towards his room, he shook his head in denial of such a ludicrous concept, and reminded himself that that day, if it ever happened, was a long ways away. 

ooooooo 

_Five months later_ : 

Athos was just about to set foot on the staircase leading up to the Captain’s office, when from behind, he hears, “I’m looking for Athos!” 

He turns around to see a pistol pointed towards him and his friends by a tall, young man with dark hair and eyes. Athos does not ever remember meeting this young man before and wonders what the grievance with him was. 

“You’ve found him,” he calmly says. 

“My name is d’Artagnan of Lupiac, in Gascony. Prepare to fight. One of us dies here.” 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LadyCavil on fanfiction.net was the first to correctly guess the source of the story’s overall quote way back in Chapter Two. Because I was in the process of finishing this incredibly stubborn chapter at the time, I decided to rename the main OC in this chapter “Cavil” in recognition. Congrats LadyCavil! :o)
> 
> Next time: Chapter Twenty-two: The Sign


	22. The Sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene for the “Present Day” section of Chapter 22 of Family.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-two: The Sign**

_“The young man got a small degree of pleasure from the fact that his captor looked as though he'd gotten little sleep since the bandits had ensured the same for him, coming in periodically throughout the night to wake him with a random kick or slap.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter22 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

He hears a sound that he thinks is a pistol being fired – or at least he hopes that’s what the sound was. It was so difficult to hear anything beyond the quiet of the dank cellar or the sound of boots clomping on the floor above him. His mind was a little fuzzy at the moment so he really couldn’t be sure of anything either way. Besides, he’s more than a little afraid that he has begun to imagine things due to the repeated blows to his face and head. 

Another sound and it sounded closer this time, but he’s positive now that it’s from a pistol being fired. Were his friends finally there to rescue him? Is Aramis using his skills as a sharpshooter to pick off his captor’s men one by one? 

Though he had somehow managed to endure his captor’s cruel treatment, d’Artagnan is more than ready to be set free. The certainty of his family coming for him had given him strength and the ability to keep from giving up any information. Finally his faith is being rewarded. 

Just about every part of him hurt to one degree or another with his head being the most severe, so much so that he could barely string more than a couple of thoughts together in a row. He couldn’t remember why he was in the cellar or how he’d even gotten into trouble in the first place. All he knew is that his captor wanted information and he had been determined to not give the man anything while biding his time until his friends came for him. 

And now, to his great relief, they were here. 

He hears another sound – the clashing of swords? Was Athos fighting to get to him even now? 

He so badly wanted to see his brother’s face. After everything they had been through to get to the point they were at in their friendship, especially after the difficult business involving Milady, it meant a lot that Athos seemed so hell-bent on getting to him. 

The sound of wood splintering fills up the room he is being kept in and he wonders how much longer it will be until he’s free. 

Porthos? Was that who made the noise? He’d been forced into kneeling for so long, that he couldn’t feel his legs anymore. He wasn’t sure he would be able to move if they needed to make a quick retreat and would need Porthos’s strength to manage it. 

Hearing the heavy footsteps coming closer, d’Artagnan is eager to see his friends and not just because of the painful position he had been forced into or his many injuries. It wasn’t either of those things, or rather, it wasn’t _only_ those things. They hadn’t been separated for very long and yet he missed them so very much. 

The footsteps were a signal that his friends had found their way to him. He can almost taste his freedom now that he knows his friends are so very close. He was almost home. For wherever his three friends are, that is where his home can be found. 

The loud footfalls stop just outside the door to his prison and he holds his breath in hopes of seeing his friends. The door handle rattles for a second before the door slowly opens wide, hitting the wall with a dull thump. 

However, because the entryway is shadowed, he can’t quite see which of his friends has entered the room first. The man is tall – _Porthos?_ – but narrow of build – _Athos?_ – and yet is stroking his mustache in a familiar way – _Aramis?_

D’Artagnan just wishes his friend, whichever one it was, would just come fully into the room and free him from his bonds, but the figure does not move. He can’t tell who it is or, given his slightly blurred vision, how many men were really at the doorway, but he does know that he just wanted it to all be over. 

He’s about to call out to him – _them?_ – when he – _they?_ – step into the light. 

A moment later he feels a stinging pain to his face as if he’d been slapped. When he opens his eyes, he needs to blink a few times before his captor’s right-hand man comes into focus. That’s when he realizes… 

It had all been a dream. 

There had never been a rescue attempt and he is still tied up and in pain in a damp cellar. He must have fallen asleep and had just enough time to dream of his rescue before his next, cruel wake-up call. Each time he finally started to fall asleep or had been asleep for a few short, blessed minutes, one of his captor’s men would forcibly wake him up with either a kick or a slap. As part of his torture, he was being kept awake. 

D’Artagnan was let down that his rescue had been a dream, but he still believed with all his heart and with every fiber of his aching being that his friends were coming for him. They were coming for him soon and he believed his brief dream was a sign of that fact. 

He just needed to hold on a little while longer. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of d’Artagnan’s concussion, I very purposely did not pay too much attention to keeping my verb tenses consistent and attempted to use basic wording.
> 
> Next time: Chapter Twenty-three: A Father’s Pride


	23. A Father's Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Prequel. Missing (flashback) scene for Chapter 23 of Family. Set between Brother’s Keeper (Chapter Fourteen) and Obvious Care (Chapter Eight).

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood, but as those for whom…”_

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-three: A Father’s Pride** _  
_

_“My valet, Gerard, spoke to me of his son one night, telling a story of how the boy had pursued his own path and how proud he was of the young man for making his own way in the world. Then he talked to me of my father … and he shared the moments of pride my father had experienced at my accomplishments.”_

_~~~~~~~ Athos, Chapter23 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

Olivier was having a difficult time adjusting to his new duties as Comte and head of the La Fère household. He had not been prepared to take over for his father so soon. He thought he would have more time, a few years during which he could travel and explore the country. Then, once his brother was of age, he had wanted to show Thomas the favorite places that he’d found. 

However, none of that was meant to be. 

His life before his parents had passed away had been tutors, lessons, and other practices all designed to prepare him to take over for his father, to be a gentleman and a comte. Knowing his duty to his family, he had learned everything that he was supposed to, though he really only enjoyed very few subjects such as sword fighting. 

Now that he was Comte, he could see the years stretching out in front of him with duty to his status and his family above anything he could want for himself, except perhaps a family of his own. He felt buried under the weight of the new title and all of its inherent responsibilities. It hadn’t even been a month and he was nearly overwhelmed by it all. 

His brother was still firmly entrenched in his grief, whereas he had hardly been given any time to feel much of anything. It was only late at night when no one could see or hear him, and before his exhaustion forced him to sleep, that he would allow himself the luxury of missing his parents. Even then, he still did not allow his emotions free rein, having finally mastered his father’s lessons on how to bury his emotions behind a façade of aloofness and stoicism. 

He felt guilty that his time with Thomas now had to be cut short due to his new responsibilities as Comte de la Fère, especially when they had nearly been inseparable when they were very young. Olivier wished he had more time to help his brother through his grief, but it was impossible for the time being. 

Gérard had been a life saver, subtly helping him transition to his new status and responsibilities. Having been his father’s valet for many years, Gérard was aware of not only the household gossip but the gossip of the entire estate and beyond. It was one thing to learn of one’s peers and where they stood in the social pecking order, it was quite another to learn of their preferences, scandals, and accomplishments, as well as who was currently in favor at Court. 

One evening, he and Gérard were discussing the logistics of a future trip to the neighboring estate of his childhood friend, Catherine, which he hoped might help begin to lessen his brother’s grief. They had just about finalized some preliminary details, and Gérard was just finishing making some notes, when he suddenly remembered what his father had been hoping for in regards to Catherine. It was another weight upon his shoulders that he simply could not bear at the present, and suddenly it all became too much for him. 

Olivier bent forward, buried his face in his hands, and then leaned forward to rest his elbows on what had used to be his father’s desk. For a moment, as tears began to prick his eyes, all he could hear was his own attempts to regain control over himself by forcing himself to breathe in and out in slow, measured breaths. It would not do to completely break form in front of Gérard or any other servant. 

From out of the near silence of his breathing and his valet’s scratching of pen to paper, Gérard began to speak of his oldest son, Gauthier. 

Olivier had known Gauthier, the older boy having served as an apprentice to his father when he was still a young boy. By now, Gauthier would have been gone from the household and the estate for at least a decade, if not more. Olivier had never known why Gauthier had suddenly no longer been there, but he remembered his own father being unhappy that it would break the generations-long line of service to the family. 

As he spoke, Gérard’s voice softened more and more, and anyone not hard of hearing would’ve been aware of the love and pride in the man’s voice. It made him long to have been able to hear that tone just once from his own father, but Olivier was keenly aware that would never have happened. 

Apparently Gauthier, during his scant free time, had somehow discovered a talent for dealing with animals, particularly horses. His father had had no idea of his son’s interest in horses at first, and could only see Gauthier’s growing discontent with his responsibilities as apprentice. The son, wanting to spend more time with the horses, had begun to become lax in his duties, not being where he was supposed to be and so on. 

Becoming fed up with the younger man’s inconvenient absences, Gérard went looking for his wayward son. He asked several of the other servants and eventually found Gauthier at the stables. His boy had looked so happy amongst the horses, far happier than at any other time as his apprentice. Seeing the way his son had handled the horses, Gérard realized in those moments of pure joy on the young man’s face that Gauthier was meant to follow another path. 

Gérard did not say anything to his son about what he had seen that day. Selfishly, he still wanted to work with his son, and so decided to keep silent for the time being. He would wait to see if his son would confront him with his dream before he would let go of his own. 

One day soon after, Gauthier approached his father at the end of a long day of attending to their duties. His son had looked him in the eye and passionately explained why he was not meant to follow in his father’s footsteps as valet to the Comte de la Fère. He had accidentally found his calling and was convinced that his future lay in the training of horses. 

Gérard wanted to forbid his son from following his dream, but he couldn’t find it in himself to snuff out the light he could see in the young man’s eyes. So he let his son go. 

Gauthier left soon after and found a place in which his talents could be developed. By all accounts, his son was naturally gifted and gaining an excellent reputation. Next spring, Gauthier would have enough funds to start his own facility for training horses and hoped to expand into training the animals for service in the military. 

Despite his disappointment that his son would not be continuing the family’s tradition of service to la Fère, Gérard was immensely proud of his son. The young man had found a different path and had had the courage to follow it in order to make his own way in the world. How could a father not be proud of such a son? 

As Gérard had continued to speak of Gauthier, Olivier’s head had lifted from his hands. He had sat listening in rapt attention to a tale of a father’s pride in his son, but then his valet had easily segued directly into stories that his own father had shared with Gérard about him. His valet shared several stories, but it was the last that had finally got Gérard’s point across. 

Olivier had been taught fencing from a young age and had quickly found that he had an aptitude for it. It was not long before he had exceeded his tutor’s abilities, growing beyond the man’s capabilities to teach him anything more of value. On more than one occasion, his father had secretly watched his son’s lessons, proud of his son’s abilities with a sword. 

His first tutor had not wanted to lose his place and had not informed anyone of Olivier’s mastery with what he had been taught thus far. However, because of his father’s secret observances, the man had let the tutor go and had found a real sword master named Sainct to teach his son. Except in a time of war and for one of his status, such a talent with a sword would rarely ever be needed, yet his father had been proud regardless and had provided his son with the means to continue to improve and master his exceptional skills. His father had enabled him to continue something that he had greatly enjoyed doing. 

Olivier had never known of his father’s observances of his lessons or of the real reason his first tutor had been replaced. It was almost beyond his comprehension to hear of how his father had been proud of him when the man had never once hinted such a thing. Yet, from the stories Gérard had told, that fact was undeniable. 

That notion sparked the realization in him that his father would always be proud of him no matter what path he would take in the future. It was a father’s prerogative to be proud of his son no matter what – even when looking down upon him from Heaven. 

Gérard grabbed his notes and excused himself from the room as the tears that Olivier had earlier held back finally spilled over and ran down his cheeks. Alone in what used to be his father’s study, Olivier finally allowed his emotions free rein and he had openly grieved the loss of his parents. 

When he was finally able to once more push back the grief, he realized that he no longer felt buried under the weight of everything being a comte entailed. He felt energized and ready to take on the challenge of his new title and responsibilities. 

As he made his way out of his study, Olivier smiled slightly when he decided that he would be one of the first to buy a horse from Gauthier’s stables when it opened in the spring. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Twenty-four: Last Shot


	24. Last Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Missing scene to Chapter 24 of Family. The beginning parallels part of the Present Day section of Chapter 22 of Family.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood, but as those for whom they would…”_

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Twenty-four: Last Shot**

_“Ahead stood another man, his arm raised and his pistol pointing downwards at some unseen spot.”_

_~~~~~~~ Chapter24 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

ooooooo 

After allowing the Musketeer boy two hours to clear his head so that he could give him the information he wanted, Maurice went back upstairs to get something to eat. As he made his way to their provisions, he couldn’t help but smirk then chuckle at the remembrance of just how beat to hell the boy had looked. He had done a good job torturing the kid without killing him. When he was a young boy, his mother had always said that practice made perfect, and it was probably the only thing she had ever been right about. Maurice was starting to regret hitting the Musketeer in the head so many times, because if he hadn’t then there wouldn’t be yet another delay as the boy tried to remember the information that he needed. 

He sighed in frustration when he saw the food available for him to eat. None of his men were good at making anything half-way decent and they’d been forced to stick to roasting whatever game they’d hunted down. After cutting a thick slice of cheese off the round he’d thought to bring, he walked over to sit in the chair by the window at the front of the house. 

Looking out the window as he munched on the cheese, Maurice considered what he would do if the young Musketeer had indeed been playing him and was not actually ready to give up any information. This was the boy’s last shot. If it was a lie, then he would follow through on his threat instead of wasting any more time, time he could have been using to search for his quarry. 

He didn’t know the name of the woman he had been hired to kidnap, but from her clothes and the fact that she had a Musketeer escort Maurice knew that she had to be some sort of noble. He was supposed to hold the lady for ransom, but then the exchange would’ve gone “wrong” and both the courier and the woman were to have died. He had toyed with the idea of not killing the woman and having some fun with her, but his employer would likely want to see the bodies. He didn’t want to take any chances double-crossing the man. 

His employer had never told him that the damned Musketeers would be involved in this caper. Losing some of his men had _not_ been part of the deal! He had been angry and had taken much of it out on the young Musketeer, thinking that the boy would be easy to break, but he had been wrong up until now. 

Having been up the half the night making plans, including asking his employer for more money, Maurice made sure the Musketeer had stayed awake as well. Why should that dog get to sleep when he could not? 

He finished the last bite of his cheese and stood up from his chair, spying one of his sentries. In a little more than an hour and a half, the boy would either cooperate or die. Who was he kidding; the Musketeer scum would be dying either way. 

Stretching his weary limbs, he tried and failed to suppress a yawn. Perhaps a short nap would be best. He would need to be well rested for the work that was to come. Maybe once he killed the boy Musketeer, he would send the body back to his garrison. He then laughed at the idea, thinking it would be great fun to taunt those miserable bastards. 

ooooooo 

When he wakes, Maurice feels refreshed and in the mood to get the information so he can get on with his business. 

He makes his way from his room at the back of the house, one which had a decent view of the forest beyond the property and towards the cellar. At the trapdoor, Maurice pauses and considers bringing the boy something to drink in order to make it look as if cooperating would end his suffering. He chuckled a bit and shook his head, deciding that he didn’t care what the boy thought, and that he was looking forward to killing a Musketeer. It had been a while since he’d last had the pleasure. 

Maurice had just started going down the rungs of the ladder to the cellar when his legs are grabbed and he feels his body falling to the side. For a brief moment, it feels like he’s tumbling into a dark abyss. 

ooooooo 

When he opens his eyes, it takes Maurice a few moments to gather his wits and remember what had happened. 

Fury erupts inside him the likes of which he has never known before. How could that bastard have escaped?! 

He rushes into the room where he’d kept the boy and sees the bloodied ropes. Understanding fills him and his anger ratchets up another notch, though he had not thought that possible. 

Seeing the blood trail on the floor, he smiles. If he could’ve seen the smile in a mirror, he might have been afraid of his countenance, how it would’ve given others the impression that he was crazed. But he couldn’t see his face and wouldn’t have cared if he could. 

He couldn’t fathom how someone as beat to hell as that boy could’ve gotten the drop on him. And if his men found out, he would never be able to live down his embarrassment – if he even lived long enough to dwell on it once one of the men got it in mind to kill him for the perceived weakness and take over. 

No amount of money was worth this much trouble, and in that moment, he didn’t even care if he found that blasted woman. He would find that Musketeer scum and enjoy killing him ever so slowly. 

Maurice follows the blood trail back out of the cellar, up the ladder, and towards his room, already guessing where the boy had gone in order to escape. 

It took him a couple of tries, but he managed to squeeze his large frame through the room’s small window. Not seeing any of his men on guard on this side of the house, he makes a mental note to punish them for not following his orders to keep sentries on all four sides of the house. His pulls his pistol out of his belt and starts following the traces the boy had so carelessly left behind. 

The blood trail is intermittent but enough to follow towards the tree line and into the forest. He smiles wickedly at the nearly zig-zagging trail of boot prints, happy that he had hurt the boy enough that catching up to the Musketeer would be easy. 

Maurice stays on the trail following the tracks and occasional smears of blood on tree trunks, thinking it would be only a few minutes before he caught up to the wounded boy. 

Finding a smear of blood on a large pine leaning precariously over a drop off, he continues through the forest along its edge until he realizes that he hadn’t seen any trace of the Musketeer for far too long. He retraces his own steps looking carefully into the underbrush, thinking the boy might have sought out a hiding place, but he doesn’t find the soon-to-be dead man. 

When he returns to the leaning pine, he realizes he knows the only direction his quarry could’ve gone – down. Looking over the edge, Maurice sees the blasted Musketeer lying in a heap several feet below. He can’t tell whether or not the boy was still alive, but he didn’t care anymore and would take care of this embarrassing problem regardless. 

He hated to lose a source of information to the woman, but he was beyond done with this stubborn boy who thought his family would come for him in time. Now that he had calmed a little, he was more than happy to cut his losses and try to find the woman another way. 

Maurice briefly feels admiration for the boy’s ability to resist his best efforts as well as his ability to deal with what he knew was a lot of pain. He then smirks, realizing that his thoughts are a better epitaph than most of the people he has killed has ever gotten. 

He raises his pistol and takes aim at the prone figure, sorry that he would not be able to kill the boy more slowly. 

“Maurice!” 

Upon hearing his name, he turns his head and sees three men, all of them Musketeers. 

“You are under arrest. Put up your pistol and prepare to be taken into our custody.” 

In his gut, Maurice knows that these men are the family the boy had mentioned, the brothers who the young Musketeer was absolutely certain would come for him. And in that moment, he knows all is lost. If those men had managed to find their brother, then his men were likely dead or scattered to the four winds, and by the looks on the Musketeers’ faces, they wished him dead despite their plea for surrender. 

The boy had been right; his family had come, but he would see to it that they had come just a fraction too late. 

His started turning back towards the boy and curled his finger around the trigger. 

Maurice hears a pistol go off, but knows it was not his own. 

He feels a sharp pain in his back, and then... 

…he feels nothing at all. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Chapter Twenty-five: Whole Again. 
> 
> Plus, the last few words of the story’s overall quotation as well as its attribution/citation.


	25. Whole Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: Epilogue/Follow-up to Chapter 25 of Family and Almost Family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter, and it’s one of the longest. I hope you enjoy it.

**ooooooo**

_"What happens if, too early, we lose a parent – that party on whom we rely for everything? What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears, but then they did the vital thing. They built a new family person by person._ _They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood, but as those for whom they would give their blood."_

~~~~~~~ Crummles, _Nicholas Nickelby_ (2002 film written/directed by Douglas McGrath; char. perf. by Nathan Lane; based on the book by Charles Dickens.). 

**ooooooo  
**

**Chapter Twenty-five: Whole Again**

“Despite his friends' concerns, he'd thwarted all of their attempts to get him to eat and sleep, certain that he deserved the penance he was inflicting upon himself, both for his past actions and for taking so long to find d'Artagnan after he'd been captured during their latest mission.”

 _~~~~~~~ Chapter 25 of “Family” by Celticgal1041._

**ooooooo**

Content now that he’d seen Athos was well, d’Artagnan allows himself to succumb to the pain draught Aramis had helped him to drink. Thoughts of safety, comfort, and his family fill his mind, keeping him calm and allowing him to sink deeper and deeper into sleep. 

Minutes, seconds, or even hours later, he feels a weight suddenly press down upon him, dragging him from out of a dream about his brothers and back down to earth. He thinks he hears a voice – no, _two_ voices – that sound alarmed, perhaps even frightened. The weight is crushing him, making it difficult for him to breathe, but the medicine Aramis gave him is too strong for him to truly wake let alone open his eyes. 

The weight suddenly lifts from off of his chest and the relief from the constriction reminds his body of his cracked and broken ribs. None of his ribs were happy with the weight upon them, and it was pretty apparent from the stitch in his side that they were not all that happy now that the weight was gone either. 

He wants to open his eyes, wants to know what is going on, but he can’t rise above the medicine coursing through him. As he slips back down, down to where the world is quiet and peaceful, d’Artagnan thinks he hears the two voices again, and realizes that he knows them though their identities remain beyond his grasp. Belatedly, he remembers that there should be a third voice and can’t fathom why it is absent when he is certain that it shouldn’t be. 

Once again he tries to stay in the present, but sleep will not give up its hold on him, and he retreats from the land of the living. 

ooooooo 

His dreamscape shifts to become something that is half-nightmare and half-reality. One minute he is seeing Athos whole and hale, though admittedly exhausted-looking, and the next his best friend is collapsing. 

He is present but unable to help, discovering that every time he tries his hands pass right through anything solid, and no matter how loudly he yells, no sound issues forth from his mouth. It’s as if he’s been forgotten and is on the outside looking in. Thankfully, Aramis and Porthos are there to help Athos, because he is trapped being an observer in this nightmarish scenario. 

Aramis laments that he didn’t do more to prevent Athos’s body from giving out even though he saw the signs. Porthos and Aramis briefly argue over how best to treat Athos and debate over where the best place would be for the older man to rest and recover. 

Recover?! Was Athos…hurt? 

No, no, no. How could this be? What could have happened? 

His two friends decide that sleep is more important simply because Athos has yet to stir after several attempts by the two of them. They also decide that it would be easier if Athos stayed where he is. D’Artagnan is thankful for that, because he had been worried that Athos would be taken somewhere his bruised and beaten body could not follow. 

Eventually, two Musketeers bring a cot in and make it up for Athos, which doesn’t make any sense to d’Artagnan, because there is a perfectly good bed on the other side of his room. He would gladly give it up to his brother. He turns towards his bed to try and understand why Athos could not use it and discovers that it is already occupied. When he goes to investigate, he discovers that it is him in the bed. 

The shock of seeing himself sends him into a black void. 

ooooooo 

Something is bothering him, but he doesn’t exactly know what it is, though it invades every corner of his mind, causing disturbing dreams. 

D’Artagnan surfaces from one such strange and terrifying dream and slowly opens his eyes. He aches but it is not the nearly overwhelming pain that he can recall after being rescued by his family from the bandits. It makes him think that the draught that Aramis had pushed on him is still working to some extent. 

Blinking multiple times helps normalize his vision somewhat and he turns his head to see Aramis sitting in the chair next to his bed. From the candles burning on the table beside it, he surmises that it is now night, but he can’t be sure and doesn’t really care all too much. 

Aramis is asleep in the chair, but he only has to try speaking once before the older man wakes and begins fussing over him, saying something about answered prayers. If he was honest with himself, he would have expected Athos to be the one in the chair and not Aramis. He has nothing against the man who had been the first of the three to truly befriend him, but in the months that he has known Athos they have somehow formed a strong bond as if they were meant to be brothers. 

It hurts to even think of moving his head and overall it just seems to be a very bad idea at the moment. However, in his limited field of vision, he can’t see either Athos or Porthos and wonders where they could be. 

Letting the mystery go for the moment, he watches Aramis’s face as the other man helps him drink some strange-tasting water and then some broth before checking his more severe injuries. It is about that time when he notices that Aramis looks worried even before he begins the light examination of his numerous wounds, making him wonder if his health was not the sole cause. 

“You alright?” he asks, his voice sounding as if he has gargled sand despite the liquids he’s had. 

Aramis startles slightly then tries to hide the reaction with a wide grin. 

“I’m fine.”—Aramis shrugs and doesn’t quite look him in the eye—“Just tired.” 

D’Artagnan senses that his friend is not being exactly forthright with him. He searches his memories for what he could recall of the past few days, and one particular thought is the most persistent. 

Something is wrong with Athos. His best friend had looked wrecked the last time he’d seen the older man. He is certain now that Aramis is keeping something from him, but before he can get the truth from the marksman, the pain draught combined with exhaustion and his injures sends him back to sleep. 

ooooooo 

When d’Artagnan next wakes, it is morning. At least he thinks it could be morning, but he won’t actually know for sure until he opens his eyes. 

However, he keeps them closed in hopes of avoiding Aramis checking his wounds, despite his obvious care, for a little longer. He’s not tired enough to fall back asleep, so he makes a sort of game out of listening for sounds which would indicate which of his brothers was his current keeper. At first, he hears nothing and thinks that he has been left alone, which makes his heartrate speed up. He’s had more than enough of being alone to last a lifetime. 

Forcing his heart to calm, he eventually determines that someone is in the room with him, even if he can’t hear them. Curious, he opens his eyes, blinking several times to adjust to what light there is in the room. 

Turning his head slightly so he can better use his peripheral vision, he immediately sees an empty chair at his bedside, though by tradition someone should be there. Despite the evidence that no one else is in the room, he still feels a presence close by. He risks causing himself discomfort by moving his still aching head even more in order to search the room. 

His heart leaps into his throat when he spies someone lying on a cot in the still dark corner of his room – Athos. 

To his foggy, still concussed brain, Athos looks… He looks… 

Athos is not dead. 

Athos was walking and talking the last time he’d seen his older brother, but now the man looks as still as… 

He shakes his head, making his lingering headache flare up. 

Athos was fine, wasn’t he? He can’t be…dead, could he? 

His brain can’t register anything else but the panic that arises from seeing the older man looking so still. 

“Ath’s,” he says barely above a whisper and hardly coherent even to his own ears. 

D’Artagnan tries again, but the man lying on the other side of the room does not move a muscle. 

Where are Aramis and Porthos? Was he dreaming again? Was this not really Athos? 

He has had more than one dream where one of his friends have died violent, bloody deaths, and this situation makes it seem as if fantasy had become reality. His foggy mind can’t make sense out of any of it, and he decides that if he can’t make himself be heard, then he would force his aching body to move closer.

His first attempts to get out of bed reawaken the rest of his injuries, his hurts flaring up in multiple locations throughout his body. He rolls to his relatively good side and tries once more to sit up, but there are fiery hot tendrils of pain shooting through his wrists, shoulder, and side. Curling up against the agony and letting out a pained gasp as he does so, he tries to get his breathing to calm before trying again. 

This time, biting his bottom lip to keep from vocalizing his distress, he barely manages to stand upright before his legs buckle and he’s heading towards the ground. His knees hit the hard ground, and at the sound of the loud thunk which results, he absurdly thinks that Aramis is going to be angry with him for adding more bruises to his overlong list of injuries. 

His pain levels have increased enough to where he would be willing to beg for any relief but he gives it one, last shot. Reaching for the little table near his bed so that he can leverage himself up off the floor, he bites back more sounds of pain that are trying to escape. The table wobbles with the increased weight he’s putting on it as he attempts to stand, and a ceramic cup is knocked over before it rolls to the ground and shatters, the noise painfully loud to his fragile head. 

Given how he feels, d’Artagnan has no idea how he is going to stand let alone get up off the floor. He can’t get over to other side of the room and he can’t get back in bed. A whimper finally escapes his lips before he can stop it. His attempts to breathe through the aches are ineffective. It’s like the pain is a thief, stealing his breath away so that he can’t seem to get enough air. 

Suddenly, he feels a hand on his forearm and he looks up to see that it’s Athos. 

Athos is alive and looking extremely worried about something. The hand on his arm is warm and he has all the proof he needs to know Athos is really there with him, when the man finally speaks. 

“Breathe,” he says as if that thought hadn’t yet crossed d’Artagnan’s mind. 

The next moments or minutes are a blur to him and next thing he knows he is back in bed and Athos is fixing the bedclothes to cover him up. 

Athos sits in the bedside chair and coaches him to slow down his breaths in order to get past the pain and calm down. After what seems like too long, it begins to work, and Athos continues to talk to him, the cultured tones managing to help further ease his mind. 

“What were you doing?” Athos eventually asks in the same calm tones as before, though d’Artagnan can tell he wants to yell at him instead. 

“Woke up alone, or so I thought. When I saw you lying on that cot, I thought…” D’Artagnan closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as hard as he can in an attempt to clear the horrible image of Athos dying from his mind. He opens them again and continues. “I thought…that… it had come true. You looked… I couldn’t tell…” 

Beginning to panic again, he lifts his hand and stretches it out towards Athos. When the older man grabs it between his two, calloused hands, he adds, “Athos, please. Please tell me that this is not a dream.” 

Athos moves one of the hands which are still clasping his own to the back of his neck before gently squeezing. 

“You feel that?” Athos asks, looking as if the weight of the world is upon him. 

D’Artagnan nods slightly as relief floods through his entire body. 

“I am here. Alive. As are you, no thanks to me.” 

He swears he just heard Athos saying… 

“What? What are you talking about?” he asks, not understanding where the older man’s guilt is coming from. “You and the others found me. I am _alive_ because of you.” 

Athos surges to his feet and stumbles slightly before starting to pace back and forth alongside his bed. 

“If I had anticipated the attack on the Queen’s cousin, you never would have had to sacrifice yourself to be captured and tortured! If I hadn’t taken so long to get reinforcements… If we’d found you sooner…” 

“Athos! Stop!” d’Artagnan says, the burning anger of his outburst causing him to lift his hand to wrap around his sore ribs and curl up slightly. 

Athos is suddenly by his side gripping his shoulder, looking as if guilt was threatening to overwhelm him again. It also allows him to get a good look at his friend. The older man has dark circles under his eyes and seems to be a bit shaky, if his slightly uncoordinated movements are any indication. He has a feeling that Athos has been letting his guilt override his self-preservation instincts. 

When the pain dies down again, he forces himself to be calm and full of conviction as he says, “It is _not_ your fault, Athos.” 

His mentor begins to pull away, but d’Artagnan grabs his forearm, causing his injured wrist to ache; he ignores the sensation. 

“If anyone is to be blamed, then blame whoever planned the attack, blame the men who captured me”—Athos flinches, but d’Artagnan tightens his grasp on the man’s forearm—“We did our duty in protecting the Queen’s cousin; it could’ve been any one of us in the position to have to stay behind and buy the others some time.” 

D’Artagnan paused to let his words sink in, loosening his grip a little now that he didn’t think Athos would pull away again. 

“If my eyes are not misleading me, then I’d wager that you went above and beyond in getting back to Paris in order to bring back reinforcements. You found me and you brought me home, that is all that matters.” 

Guilt quickly passes over Athos’s face and his body tenses, making d’Artagnan wonder if there wasn’t something else that happened, something he couldn’t remember. Whatever it was must have really shaken the older man up. He waits, but Athos seemed content to keep his demons to himself. 

Athos ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that is unusual for him but very reminiscent of Aramis. Either this is proof that they spend too much time together or his friend is thinking of Aramis. If he is thinking of Aramis, then the issue must involve someone’s health, either his or Athos’s – perhaps both. 

His friend has a tendency to let his guilt, which is sometimes misplaced, to get the better of him and take over. Too many times he uses copious amounts of wine to drown the guilt out, but he’d seen Athos punish himself in other ways. Perhaps…? 

“Athos?” he asks. When Athos does not look at him and seems lost in his thoughts, he squeezes the forearm he still has a hand on. “Athos?” 

The older Musketeer startles slightly and blinks once before looking down at where d’Artagnan’s hand was on his arm. Finally the other man meets his eyes. 

“What happened to me? I remember escaping and running towards the trees, but everything after that is pretty much gone.” 

The muscles of Athos’s forearm tense and d’Artagnan could feel that his friend has suppressed a flinch. 

Athos shakes his head and offers, “The Queen’s cousin is safe, Maurice, your captor, is dead, and you are home. As you said: that is all that matters.” 

Now he _knows_ that he has missed something important. He ducks his head to catch and hold Athos’s gaze, hoping the man will admit what is not being said. Athos stares back but ends up looking away first, heaving a great sigh. 

Haltingly, Athos tells him what had happened from the time that they’d been ambushed. The events are told as mere facts, precise details with no emotions attached to anything that had happened. Relief, anger, worry are never once mentioned, it was as if they were not felt in the first place. This worries him; Athos is only really like this when something is greatly troubling him. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, hoping some inspiration would come to him about how to help his best friend. 

ooooooo 

Before he came to Paris and met the Musketeers, d’Artagnan had only ever been considered an older brother. He’d never experienced what it was like to be the youngest until God saw fit to bring him and Aramis, Porthos, and Athos together. Even after all these months, he is still trying to figure out his new role as a younger brother. 

D’Artagnan loves all three of his brothers with every fiber of his being and knows that he will never again be alone as long as they are by his side, especially Athos. He is more than aware that it was irrational to have latched onto Athos as the one he most needed acceptance and approval from. At times, he considers it to be a weakness, but there is that special something about the older man that speaks to him, not to mention the respect he has for Athos. 

D’Artagnan had been thrilled as Aramis and then Porthos changed their minds and accepted him, welcoming him as a friend. However, at the time, one nagging thought lingered. He assumes that unless Athos also accepts him, then he would ultimately lose all three of them. They would be his brothers-in-arms, fellow Musketeers and nothing else. Would it have been worth gaining his commission only to lose the men he thought might one day be as family to him? 

He doesn’t understand it, but he feels a kinship with the man he’d come to Paris to kill. Sometimes, he wonders if the reason he wanted the other man’s acceptance is because of the older man’s insistence on keeping him, for the most part, at arm’s length. Since the night he’d pulled Athos out of the fire at the man’s estate, he thought that the man’s reluctance in getting to know him stemmed in part from the circumstances surrounding his brother and his wife. Athos had tolerated him but never really shown true interest in him or his training until after his mission involving baby Henri and his mother Agnes. 

It was after that mission that Athos begins to have a more active – and voluntary – role in his training with a blade. The instruction is intense but he can tell that his skills are advancing at a steady rate, and the rare instances of praise from the older man fill him with satisfaction and inspire him to work even harder. They seem to finally be working towards a friendship when the incident with Ninon de Larroque. Athos had been determined to drink himself into oblivion, and he and the others had been equally determined to show the man that he was more than worth their friendship. 

For him, the real turning point, the point where he really and truly feels that Athos has accepted him as a friend is when they had been sent to Gascony to retrieve Labarge. At first, he thought he wouldn’t have a problem visiting his home region since he would not be in close proximity to Lupiac. However, as they ride closer and closer, his mood sinks lower and lower as his thoughts turn towards his father and his murder. Grief that he had managed to lock deep within tears loose and overcomes him. 

Then one night after they’d captured Labarge, the nasty man had made some hateful comments, which in their inadvertent accuracy are like daggers to his heart. After he admits what is burdening him, Athos had comforted him and acted as his strength and shield as he broke down, sobbing into the man’s chest like a young child. Yet, being in the older man’s comforting embrace is not awkward or embarrassing, even hours later when he has awakened from an exhausted slumber. He finally senses that Athos has accepted him as a friend. 

Since that night, their friendship has grown closer and a deeper bond begins to form. Gaining his commission to the Musketeer regiment from the King overwhelms his emotions, a few tears of joy unconsciously leaking from his eyes. He will never forget the anniversary of this event. However, it is Athos’s declaration hours later that he was proud of him which convinced him that he was not just a brother-at-arms but a brother of choice. 

From that day, their bond grows stronger, coming to eclipse the ones he has with Aramis and Porthos. Perhaps it is the shared losses of younger brothers and people ripped from their lives by violence which unites them as brothers of the heart. Sometimes, he even feels that the older Musketeer was more protective than his own father had once been. 

Between his brothers of the heart, Mattias and Alric, and his father, he has lost three very important men in his life. While they are out on the road on a mission and once the chores are done, Aramis sometimes recites Bible stories to them in order to pass the time. One story which had given him hope for the future is about Job. 

Job had lost everything, including all of his children and yet the man did not lose his faith in God even through all his suffering. At the end of the tale, God has blessed Job’s faithfulness and restored him to more than he had in the first place, including the same number of children that had been taken from him. 

Such is the same with him, though he would _never_ claim to be as faithful as Job. He has lost three important men in his life and God has restored the same number back to him in Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. He once again has a family. 

ooooooo 

He opens his eyes and is surprised to see Porthos and not Athos sitting by his bedside. 

When the older man notices him and recognizes his confusion, Porthos grins and says, “You fell asleep while talking to him.” 

“Where—?” he begins to ask but his dry throat forces him to cough. 

Porthos hands him a cup of broth to drink before tipping his head over his left shoulder. 

“Sleeping. Aramis too. Sorry for not being here earlier, but we didn’t think either of ya would be awake any time soon.” D’Artagnan hands the cup back as Porthos adds, “Should’a known you two would be contrary.” 

He smiles and pats the other man’s knee a couple of times. “S’alright. We were fine on our own.” 

His friend snorts. “Yeah, right. We know your definition of fine, little brother, and it ain’t the same as ours”—Porthos scratches at the back of his head—“Well, not the same as me and Aramis’s anyway. Athos’s is too much like yours.” 

“What do you mean?” he asks, momentarily forgetting his broken ribs and injured shoulder as he tries to raise himself up off the bed. Pain rushes in, but he needs to know. “Is Athos alright?” 

Porthos gently pushes him back flat. “Hey! I swear he’s fine, or will be once he sleeps and eats.” 

“Porthos,” he says, rapidly losing his patience at the lack of information. “ _What happened_?” 

“Didn’t he tell ya?” the other man asks then mumbles, “Of course, ‘e didn’t.” 

“He told me some, but I know I’m missing something.” 

“What’s probably missin’ is him _not_ telling you about the amnesia that your concussion caused.”—Porthos points towards his broken ribs—“With your ribs hurting and your memories scrambled, you thought Athos was trying to kill you over Milady. You were very afraid of him, and he…didn’t react well.” 

D’Artagnan lifts a hand towards his face intent on rubbing his eyes, but with the bruising he knows is there, thinks better of it and lowers it back to the bed. 

He could quite easily imagine how badly Athos would’ve reacted to the situation. It also certainly explains his friend’s appearance, the older man looking exhausted and a bit shaky. 

“Did you make him eat?” 

“You’ve got his number, don’t ya?”—Porthos chuckles—“Aye. You missed it, when you fell asleep before.” 

He sighs. D’Artagnan knew none of this was his fault, but he still felt bad for causing so much trouble. 

“Sorry.” 

The older Musketeer shrugged. “It’s what brothers do.” 

“I know,” he replies then smiles. 

ooooooo 

The next time he wakes it appears to be early night, Athos is back sitting beside his bed reading a book. Porthos and Aramis don’t seem to be in the room with them. 

Engrossed in his book, Athos hasn’t yet noticed that he is awake. He decides to solve that problem by saying the first thing that comes to his mind. 

“You are an idiot.” 

Athos startles and fumbles the book a bit as he closes it. “Beg pardon?” 

“You heard me,” he says. “Porthos told me what you wouldn’t.” 

His friend sighs and lays his book on the small table beside his bed. Athos then leans over to rest his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together in front. 

“I didn’t want—” 

D’Artagnan lays his hand on Athos’s and shakes his head slightly. “You should’ve told me.” 

Athos frees one of his hands and lays it on top of the other two and sighs. “I know. I apologize.” 

“I’ll forgive you if you stop blaming yourself for what happened on our mission.” 

The older man’s eyebrow rises practically up to his hairline even as a slight smile emerges on his face. 

“You drive a hard bargain,” he says, a father-like pride coloring his voice. 

Though the wide, and hopefully cheeky, grin makes the bruises on his face hurt a little, he thinks it more than worth it. 

“I know.” 

“Then… You’ve got a deal,” Athos says with a genuine smile on his face, gently shaking their still clasped hands a couple of times to seal the bargain before letting go. 

Confident that his friend has finally gotten the message, d’Artagnan gestures towards the book. “Any good?” 

Athos nods and replies, “I am enjoying it. It is a translation of a novel called _Don Quixote_.” 

“I’m bored. Read to me?” 

“You can’t be bored. You just woke up.” 

“Please.” 

Athos huffs then replies, “Fine.” 

As Athos reads from the book, the sound of his voice is calming to the point where any lingering aches are practically non-existent. 

Despite the good story, d’Artagnan’s mind wanders back to recent events. 

What happened to him is part and parcel to what it means to be a Musketeer. At any time something could happen to any of them, and God forbid, one day one or more of his brothers might not make it back home. However, that time is not this time. 

The Queen’s cousin is safe, and his brothers found him in time. He is alive and they are together again. 

What more could he want than to have his family be whole again? 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed that I included (in some form) the titles of every single chapter of Almost Family into this one. 
> 
> If you have the time, and would like to make my day, could you let me know which chapters were your favorites? Thanks! 
> 
> *** Thank you to all those who read, left kudos, commented, and/or bookmarked this story (especially those people who left a comment on every single chapter)! I am very thankful for your support, and appreciate you taking time out of your busy lives to take this journey with me and Celticgal. ***

**Author's Note:**

> The Musketeers are not mine. I’m just borrowing the concepts and characters for a little while. All quotes taken from “Family” were used by permission from the author.
> 
> Cross-posted on fanfiction.net.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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